


Addendum: He Is Also A Liar

by Ergott



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Eventual Spoilers for Years One Through Seven), Anachronisms and Historical Inaccuracies if you look for them, And it takes Hermione a very long time to realize that, Bullying, Canonical Animal Abuse (brief), Canonical Blood Prejudices, Eventual Tomione, F/M, For a bit anyway, Manipulative!Tom, Please don't look for them, Pre-Hogwarts, Slow Burn, Spoilers for The Philosopher's Stone, Surprisingly Dangerous Quirrell, Time Travel, Timeline chicanery, Tom Riddle is genuinely not okay, accidental magic, brief mentions of violence, moral ambivalence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:05:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 158,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ergott/pseuds/Ergott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his impoverished circumstances, Tom Riddle always knew he was destined for great things. The ability to travel back and forth through time was a bit of a surprise, though. Also a surprise: the bushy-haired little girl he meets in the future who possesses powers to match his own. Eventual Tomione; starts pre-Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Is Magic

**Addendum: He Is Also A Liar**

Chapter One: He Is Magic

 

_Wool's Orphanage, London, 1935_

In the eight interminably long years of his admittedly short life, Tom Riddle had come to hate many things. He hated the grey uniform and scratchy woolen socks he was forced to wear, hated the bare seven by ten box he lived in that the orphanage had the audacity to call a room. He hated the slimy food and meager portions he received, hated the other children and the simpleminded ways they thought. But more than  _anything_  he hated Mrs. Cole.

She did not treat him very different from any of the other children, but he saw the frustration and sometimes even fear in her eyes—she knew he was different. But instead of giving him special allowances as he deserved, she was forever trying to "help" him. However, somewhere in the recesses of her brain the signals had gotten crossed, and rather than seeing Tom for the gifted child he knew he was she seemed to think he was an oddity to be classified. She'd brought in some acquaintance from the other side of the city—a doctor if Tom had ever seen one; the man's posture was ramrod straight and his eyes were sharp and analytical.

Mrs. Cole's only redeeming quality was that she was perpetually harried, and had thus left the boy and the doctor alone as she tended to other business. Which was very fortunate for Tom, otherwise he didn't think he'd be able to do what he was about to.

Tom had long reconciled that he could make no overt moves against the young Matron; there was no reason to make his life more difficult after all, especially when he had nowhere else to go. When he had been younger he'd toyed with the idea of running away, but the gesture had seemed dramatically irresponsible and all the others he'd seen try it had been back within a week. The day he had realized that he could in some way exert his will upon the world around him, it had taken a fair amount of self-restraint not to send Mrs. Cole tumbling down the stairs with a flick of his thoughts. Wool's Orphanage was the closest thing he had to a home, and while he did not like the Matron he certainly didn't want to trade her in for an unknown replacement; he would maintain the status quo with her, if only because she was familiar. Everyone else, though? Fair game, so long as Mrs. Cole wasn't there to witness it.

Her doctor friend was about to make a very hasty exit, whether he wanted to or not.

The man was of a modest build, unassuming, and he wore joviality like a mask—his friendly attitude belied by the sharpness of his smile. With a falsely languid move, he folded himself into the rickety chair that made up a full third of the furniture in the room, making himself at home without permission or invitation. "Hello, Tom. Do you mind if I call you Tom?" He didn't wait for a reply. "My name is Edison," he beamed and held out his hand.

But the doctor was about to find out that Tom could smile sharply too—sharper than anything. The boy let his lips curl into a cruel blade of grin and corrected, "Dr. Edison, you mean."

"There's no need for that tone," Edison replied, dropping his hand and looking briefly taken aback. Perhaps he had never met such a self-possessed eight year old. "I'm just here to talk to you, Tom."

"About what," Tom drawled nastily, patience already preternaturally thin at this intrusion into his life. "The weather? How my lessons are going? How Mrs. Cole seems to think I'd be less trouble if I were locked away in a lunatic asylum?"

The doctor barely held back a flinch at this frigid accusation. He'd likely thought that as long as he didn't mention the reason for his visit, the boy would never know. He was dead wrong about that—Tom had gotten quite good at reading people and he nearly always knew what they were trying to hide from him. But the doctor rallied quickly, attempting to salvage the situation. "Bit of a reach there, my boy. No one said anything about—"

"You are right, though," Tom cut him off. He quieted his thoughts, focusing his will upon one thing. "I will talk to you, and I'll tell you this: when I'm finished you'll follow every word to the letter."

"You're very confrontational for a boy your age," Edison snapped, friendly facade crumbling, "but you'll find that you have precious little leverage in this situation."

Tom pulled at that inner core of something, the well of extra from which he drew on these occasions. It was a deep dive—he had yet to find the bottom—and he clutched at the power, forcing it up and out of him, twining it around a series of deliberate words. When he spoke, his voice was strong and echoing, as though there were a dozen of him speaking. "You're going to sit there silently for a few minutes and then you will leave. On your way out you'll inform Mrs. Cole that there's nothing wrong with me and no matter how she begs you, you will never return here again."

Edison frowned, paling. "Now really, boy—"

Tom dove deeper, pushed harder, snapping out,  _"Listen to me!"_  And he began repeating his command, again and again, until Dr. Edison's eyes glazed over. By then Tom had broken out into a sweat; he'd never tried to do something so complicated before and he wasn't really sure if he was going about it correctly. But, really, it wasn't so different from the other little things he'd done—if he could get stray cats to wade through icy street waters of their own volition then there was no reason he couldn't make Dr. Edison obey him. Yet he kept at it, long after the man's eyes went blank and feverish; he had to be sure, after all, that no one was coming to take him away.

There was a terrible pressure building behind his left temple and the harder he pushed to exert his will, the worse the pressure became. The room began to shake, the window rattling in its loose frame as the wardrobe, bed, and chair began to twitch. He was so close, he could feel it—Dr. Edison was his to command, just a little further and this problem would solve itself. But with a final and impatient heave the pressure broke. There was a deafening  _crack_  and Tom found himself falling, tumbling downward as though he'd broken through ice.

He landed with a terrible jolt, heels skidding on wet grass until he finally upended and fell, sprawled out on his back.

* * *

_West London Primary, London, 1987_

Hermione Granger had known for some time that she wasn't  _quite_  like other children her age. For one thing, she remembered lessons and conversations far better than her peers. For another, she enjoyed her lessons, soaked them up eagerly, even wanted to work ahead, to see how far she could get before something finally stumped her. And sometimes, just sometimes, she almost thought that she could... _make things happen_ , if she wanted it badly enough.

But that idea was foolish, and she was enough of a target without adding more fuel to the fire. Her classmates picked on her relentlessly, teasing her about everything from her hair to her grades. She couldn't help being clever, it came to her naturally, and it certainly shouldn't be something that made other people upset; she was sure that if they just tried, her classmates could easily catch up to her scores.

They never  _did_  try, though. Apparently, it was easier to be mean than smart. So she avoided them; Hermione spent all her free time at a small bench that had been sadly lost behind some bushes—no one ever came looking for her there. While the other students ran and climbed over the play equipment, she sat quietly with her library books, absorbed in the only friends she'd ever had.

The early autumn sun beamed around her, dappled as it was by the ancient trees that surrounded the school yard and the passing of earlier rains. Hermione sighed contentedly and opened her borrowed copy of James and the Giant Peach. She'd read it before, but the extraordinary strangeness of James' story called to her. She was just reaching the point where the young orphan met his travel companions when a loud noise drew her attention away from her reading.

Hermione peeked over the edge of her book and saw a curious boy sprawled out on the ground. He was pale, with dark hair and darker eyes, and seemed very tall and gangly, although she was certain that they were about the same age based on the boyish roundness of his face. She considered briefly that he might be a new student, but he was wearing some sort of uniform—a drab grey tunic that was threadbare at the elbows and cuffs—that seemed to suggest he went elsewhere. She took in his silent wince of pain and looked up; there weren't any broken twigs or branches to suggest he'd slipped from the tree above her, but nothing else made sense. Boys didn't just appear out of nowhere.

"You shouldn't climb trees after it's been raining," Hermione admonished, turning her attention back to her book. "You could have broken something."

Peripherally, she noticed the boy jerk to his feet, shedding his discomfort like so much nonsense. He towered over her, frowning as he snapped, "I wasn't climbing anything."

She rolled her eyes and turned a page, snidely asking, "Then how did you fall?"

He was visibly irritated by her lack of attention, and with a thunderous frown he snatched the book straight from her fingers. "Where am I?" He asked imperiously.

But Hermione wasn't listening; all her attention was on the poor hardbound tome that had been so rudely taken away. The boy held it carefully enough—perhaps he enjoyed reading as well—but his hand stretched so far above her that she could never hope to reach it on her own. "Give that  _back_ ," she snapped with a hint of panic—the book did not belong to her after all; it was the library's, and its safekeeping was her responsibility.

The boy considered her for a moment, then his grip tightened and small smile began to tug to corner of his lips. He waved the little novel tauntingly close, and the words,  _'Make me,'_  sat unspoken between them.

Hermione became alarmed. She liked the library; there were so many different books to read on more subjects than she could even begin to guess about, and the librarian was a grandfatherly gentleman that always set aside something special for her to borrow. He would be so  _disappointed_  if she lost this book; perhaps he would never even trust her again. What if she lost all her privileges over this? Could the library  _ban_  her over a stolen novel?

She did not wish find out—the library was her haven, and she would not jeopardize her access to it. Daringly, Hermione shot to her feet, standing upon the bench so that she could tower over the boy in turn. He seemed to have anticipated her move though, because his lean arm stretch far behind him and just out of her reach. At her wit's end and now quite angry, she jumped, intending to tackle the bully.

But in the blink of an eye, he had vanished, flashed out of existence as though he'd never been there at all. Hermione stared, dumbfounded, at where he'd stood, but the boy was well and truly gone. With a sinking heart, she realized so was her book.

* * *

_Wool's Orphanage, London, 1935_

A sickly sensation pulled at the edges of Tom's mind—not unlike the feeling of clinging, damp linen sucking at him as it was peeled away—and with a jolt he found himself back in his room. He must not have been gone for very long because Dr. Edison was still there and the eddies of power that had jerked about his furniture were only just settling. He felt drained, his limbs weak and sluggish as if just coming down from a high fever, and he wasn't entirely certain what had just happened. The slim tome in his hands was proof that he hadn't imagined it, though—he'd transported himself to some unknown destination and back with nothing more than the power of his thoughts. It was a bit inconvenient that he hadn't done it on purpose—either the coming  _or_  the going—but he was thrilled to add this new trick to his repertoire.

Dr. Edison rose awkwardly to his feet, his movements jerky and mechanical as he left. Tom only kept half an ear to the conversation out in the corridor—Edison's flat tone parroting exactly what Tom had instructed him to say, followed immediately by Mrs. Cole's retreating confusion as she tried to stop the doctor from leaving. Within moments, she was standing at Tom's threshold, holding herself back as if she dared not enter. Tom supposed she was frightened or suspicious; she always was, and he was content to let her stew in her useless panic.

He paid her no mind, his attention once more drawn to the book he'd snatched. Its cover was colorful and glossy, very different from the linen and leather-bound books he was used to. He imagined this copy must have been very expensive, particularly given its previous owner's panic.  _She'd_  been something different, too, now that he thought on it—a girl in  _trousers_ , her wild hair tumbling free instead of sensibly tied back by ribbons. What sort of tale might an untamed thing like that find interesting?

Curiosity getting the better of him, Tom settled himself comfortably upon his bed and peeled the heavy title page back. He devoured the book, read it cover to cover in record time. It was an engaging story of magic and monstrous creatures. However, what really grabbed his attention was the publishing date.

Awed for perhaps the first time in his life, Tom ran a shaking thumb over those four earth-shattering numbers: 1961.


	2. He Is No Longer Alone

_London, 1935_

The future.  _He'd been to the future!_  Tom could scarcely believe it, but the evidence was stacking up. He'd found another date in the book: a library slip tucked against the back cover with a check out date from 1987. Those two years taken in conjunction with the finely crafted book and the strange-looking girl he'd met settled the idea for him. Somehow, he'd transported himself not just through space but  _time_  as well—fifty-two years into the future!

How he'd managed to do it was elusive, though. Obviously, he'd worked too hard to overpower Dr. Edison. But how did trying to make the doctor go away suddenly become time-travel? It had something to do with the unbearable pressure that had built at his left temple, but exactly  _what_  he'd done was becoming less and less clear.

So he tried to replicate it. Sitting alone in the barren, walled courtyard, Tom dove into the core of himself. He grabbed at the power within, forcing more and more out as he concentrated on the idea of hopping forward in time. A few rocks skidded along the ground, pulled toward him by unseen strings, but nothing else happened for a while. After a time, his left temple began to throb, and he renewed his efforts with vigor. Ignoring the fine tremor that suffused his limbs, Tom impatiently dove deeper. The rocks were  _pulverized_  to dust and somewhere on the other side of the orphanage a window  _shattered_ , but the pressure did not break as last time. The throbbing built and built until he couldn't even see out his left eye anymore, but nothing  _snapped_ , nothing  _changed_.

Exhausted and bitterly angry, Tom stopped. He despised failure, particularly when it was his own. What had he done wrong? What was different about  _now_  that he could not work this trick a second time?

He spent the rest of the day in a furious sulk, taking his temper out on any of the other children who dared look twice at him.

Tom continued experimenting every day for the next week, and although he felt as if he was nearing an inevitable precipice, he never once managed to tip over the edge no matter how hard he tried. His head throbbed in perpetual agony and his mood spiraled into ever darker depths at his continued failure, but he kept at it every single day. Unfortunately, it was just after his latest failure when the new boy found him.

The fair-haired blond had arrived at the orphanage in a whirlwind of drama some two or three weeks ago, and the little idiot had yet to fully grasp the established pecking order. The other children  _must_  have told Billy Stubbs about eerie Tom Riddle, but whatever they'd said didn't seem to have made the appropriate impression. The fair boy had decided,  _unwisely_ , to test the waters. Tom found himself increasingly annoyed by these not so subtle challenges, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the other learned his place. Billy Stubbs had delusions of grandeur if he thought he could wrest control of the play-yard from Tom.

Tom was irritated and disappointed from his latest botched try when Stubbs came sauntering up to him. "What'cha doing, Tommy?" He sneered trying to look tough, but there was still a softness in him from the easy life he'd previously led. "No, let me guess!  _Nothing_ , like always."

Tom ignored the way the boy had him cornered in the far side of the yard—the blond was at a disadvantage no matter how he positioned himself—as he was hardly in the mood to deal with would-be bullies. He waved at the boy dismissively, hissing, "Go away, Stubbs."

But Stubbs didn't listen. "How is it," he growled, "that I've never seen you lift a finger, and yet you've got everyone here terrified of you?"

Clearly, the other boy had finally reached the end of his tether; he was ready to force the issue of who was in charge. But he was ignorant of Tom's ways, and Tom rather found he didn't care to illuminate the situation much. He enjoyed watching the boy dig this neat little hole for himself. "They're terrified because I don't  _have to_  lift a finger."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Stubbs didn't get it.  _Wouldn't_  get it until he'd had a practical demonstration.

Just then, Amy Benson came darting out the back door, pelting in her bare feet until she stood between them. "Come on, Billy," she urged, a hint of panic in her voice as she wrapped an arm around the blond's elbow. "Leave Riddle alone."

"Why?" He demanded, shaking the girl off. He couldn't know how many times she'd been a witness to something unexplainable, how many times she'd seen bad things happen to people who bothered Riddle. Unaware of the dangerous path he was following, he pressed, "What's he going to do? Tattle on me? Is  _that_  why you're all so scared of him?"

Amy's eyes darted over to Tom and the fear he found there was simply enchanting. "Just leave it," she replied, shaking her head. "You don't want to find out."

"You should listen to your little friend,  _Billy_ ," Tom drawled mockingly, already pulling on his power. If he concentrated, he might be able to send Stubbs flying straight into the high wall or press him into the ground until he cracked a rib. It would be complicated, of course, but after his success with Dr. Edison he felt that perhaps he  _should_  be trying more complicated things.

" _That's it,_ " the blond snapped. "You and me, Riddle, come on!"

Tom had been in his fair share of scuffs. He'd found that the trick was to dodge just long enough to find an opening for one of his little "skills". Stubbs surprised him though, darting forward with an unnerving speed. Before he could even blink, grubby hands had reached into his pocket and snatched out  _James and the Giant Peach_.

Amy Benson went white as a sheet when she saw what Billy had done and she scrambled desperately to get away.

However, Stubbs didn't seem to notice her reaction. "What's the matter, Riddle? Don't you want it back?" He waved the book tauntingly, a nasty grin plastered across his face. "I  _knew_  it—you're not  _really_  so tough as everyone says."

Tom felt himself flushing an angry crimson and his vision went positively red as the pressure at his temple began to sear in its intensity. Power flared through him wildly as he lost control of his temper. Cobra fast, his long-fingered hand whipped out to close around the book. Two things happened in very quick succession as he grasped at the glossy cover. First, Billy Stubbs was thrown back as if hit by a shockwave and then, just as the idiot-boy landed, Tom's ears  _popped_  and he got the distinct impression that he was  _falling_.

* * *

_London, 1987_

Tom skidded in the slick grass, but managed to stop himself from tipping over as he had last time. He took a moment to regain his composure—the sudden absence of the self-induced migraine he'd endured for the last few days was both sweetly peacefully and oddly unsettling. There was quiet stillness in his mind where before there had been an unending riot of angry, preternatural residue.

"You again!" A familiar voice shrieked at him.

Tom looked up. Once more he was stood before the old tree, the rickety covered bench, and the strange girl. The little hellion was in trousers again—thick, pin cord fabric encasing each leg. Mrs. Cole would have had an apoplexy if she'd been there to see it. The old bat probably wouldn't have liked the rainbow colored belt or the garishly pink blouse either, and she definitely would have thrown a fit over the state of the girl's hair. Tom considered that perhaps she was a runaway—that she dressed herself would go a long way in explaining why her appearance was so terribly unkempt—but he also had to concede that this could simply be the fashion of the future, weird as that idea was.

The girl marched straight up to him, uncowed by his superior height. She poked an accusing finger against his chest and said, "You  _disappeared_  into nothing and now you've popped in from nowhere!  _How?_ "

That was a good question. Once again, he'd not actually  _meant_  to travel and yet here he was. Casually batting her hand away, Tom looked down to the slim novel he was still clutching and murmured more to himself, "I can't say that I'm entirely certain." The admission irritated him deeply. Why couldn't he  _control_  this power? When he'd tried to move on purpose he'd done little more than hurt himself, and yet losing his temper with Billy Stubbs had somehow given him that last push he'd needed.  _Why?_

His thoughts were interrupted. "My book!" The girl reared back, seeming to fluff up with indignation like a great brown cat. "Quickly, give it back," she demanded, the tips of her ears going pink as her voice took on an unmistakably bossy edge. "It will be due soon, and I don't want to be in trouble with the library!"

"Too bad," Tom sneered. He didn't like her tone, didn't like that this was the  _second_  time today he'd had to defend his book against outside forces. Spitefully, he added, "It's mine now."

The girl didn't take kindly to that declaration. She stamped her foot, cheeks flushing prettily as her eyes flashed with anger. "I'm not playing," she snapped, darting forward to wrest the tome from him. "Give it here!"

"No," he deadpanned, raising the book above his head, watching in malicious glee as she jumped fruitlessly in an attempt to retrieve it—she was more than a full head shorter than him and even her highest jump barely reached his outstretched elbow. "I might need this to make the trick work." Really, who knew? It was the only thing he could think of that might have sparked this latest episode of traveling.

The girl ignored those words as she clearly didn't know what he was talking about. Panting and flushed, she separated from him, taking a few steps back in a fine fury. "It isn't yours to use!"

"What are you going to do?" He laughed, cruelly amused at her wasted efforts. "Going to cry?"

She certainly looked as if she could at any moment—her cheeks were bright red by now and her eyes were sparkling as if she might be holding back tears. But her face didn't crumple and she made not a sound; instead she bared her teeth in a mean little snarl and held out her hand.

He was about to laugh that she could keep her hands to herself since there was no way he was handing  _James and the Giant Peach_  over, but then he felt it. It was a subtle thickening in the air, the indefinable brush of familiar power, only it wasn't his own. Before he could even so much as blink, the book had slipped from his grasp and sailed through the air until the girl caught it with a shocked look. She stared down at the glossy cover now clutched between her small fingers, her lips parted in surprise.

Tom's mouth went very dry, the book all but forgotten.  _Never_ , not  _once_  in eight years, had he met someone with powers like his own. And yet here was this girl, fifty-two years removed from him, that could make things move without touching them, just as he could!

* * *

Hermione stared down at the book in wonder. She'd suspected for a while that if she wanted something badly enough she could make it happen, but this was the first time she'd ever made an object fly! Once or twice, she'd knocked things off of high shelves, but she'd assumed that was mostly gravity and luck; now she wasn't so sure. She stared at her fingers, pale little digits gripped tightly around the glaringly bright novel, and pondered at the marvel she'd just performed—she could still feel the thrumming energy surrounding her, even taste it upon her tongue; it was like magic.

"Do you do that often?" She gasped at the question, having quite forgotten that the boy was even there. He stood loosely now, his posture suddenly non-confrontational, but his tone demanded an answer and there was an unsettling look in his dark eyes.

Hermione considered the question. There was no point in denying what she had just done; they'd both watched the book fly through the air without any visible provocation. And, of course, there were those other instances where small but otherwise impossible things had worked out in her favor. After a brief hesitation, she replied, "I wasn't even sure that I  _could_  do it."

"Which is to say that you can't control it yet," the boy guessed, cocking his head to the side as he appeared to take her measure.

She didn't deny it—his words were true enough—but there was something about the  _way_  he'd said it, the unsubtle certainty threaded through his voice, that set her brow to furrowing. "What do you mean?"

He smiled. Not the sharp, mean grin he'd thrown at her a few times before, but a true, proud smile that chased away the curious blankness which lingered about him. The boy drew himself up, nearly smirking now, and replied, " _I_  can control it."

Hermione felt her eyes widen. Was it possible? Were there others with this same fantastical talent? "You mean you can do magic too?"

"Magic?" He sounded out the word slowly, as if tasting the weight of it, and he must have decided he liked it because he nodded just once. "Yes, I suppose I can do  _magic_. Want to see?"

She nodded vigorously. What might someone who claimed to have control be able to do?

He looked around for a moment before settling his focus on a nearby ground-squirrel. The little thing flitted this way and that until, quite suddenly, it came to an abrupt stop. Hermione could feel the energy building around the two of them and hardly needed the boy's imperious, "Watch," to know that he was somehow controlling the small animal.

Right before her very eyes the tiny rodent did a summersault and then popped up into a handstand, a charming little acrobatic move that had her clapping her hands in delight. "Amazing," she breathed, looking back to the boy as he broke his thrall over the squirrel.

"Hardly," he snorted, although the bright glint in his eyes belied the pleasure he took in her compliment. "Once, I managed to levitate my wardrobe off the ground for three full minutes." He looked her up and down again. "Have you ever done anything like that?"

It was an innocent enough question, but something about it felt like a challenge. Hermione was a bit stricken to realize that she didn't measure up; she was used to being the best at everything, but this strange boy clearly had her outclassed. "I don't think so," she shrugged uneasily. "Mostly, I've just knocked stuff over." Then, not able to keep the self-doubt at bay, added, "If that even was me at all."

He frowned at her mumbled words and strode toward her. Taking her shoulder in hand, he turned her about until they were both facing a large stone that lay just at the foot of the tree. He pointed at it with his left hand, and from just over her shoulder he commanded, "Try."

Hermione became panicked. The boy was standing too close, still gripping her shoulder, and she didn't know if she could give him what he was asking for. She knew she was  _able_  to do it—the book was proof enough of that—but she didn't know how. There were no instructions, no guides to follow; she'd been angry before and not paying any attention to  _how_  she'd made the book move.

And yet she could still feel the magic in the air, mostly his now but even so it was something to grasp at. She stared at the rock and tried, willed the energy to build and lift the heavy object, but it didn't so much as twitch. "It's not working," she whispered after a few minutes, unaccountably disappointed in herself.

She felt the boy shake his head above her. "You need to focus," he replied, free hand sliding down to grip her limp wrist. "Just imagine that the rock is weightless and attached to a long stick." He lifted her wrist slightly, urging, "Pick up the handle and lift it."'

Hermione found using her left hand a bit awkward, but his instructions were clear enough. She let her thoughts quiet down and pictured  _exactly_  as he'd said, latching onto the idea until she felt the air begin to shift around her. The large stone jolted and then slid smoothly upward several inches as she imagined gripping a sturdy handle. Giddy with excitement, she turned around and beamed at the boy.

He idly watched the rock give in to the demands of gravity when she lost visual contact with it, but for all his stoicism she could tell he was impressed at how quickly she'd managed to follow his instruction. After a long moment, he stepped back from her, but the covetous look in his eyes told her he'd only done it so that she wouldn't have the opportunity to  _push_  him away. "I've never met anyone else who could do the things I can." His gaze turned introspective, as if pondering some great mystery. "Are your parents magic too?"

Her parents were great people, both of them clever and driven, but she'd never once seen either of them do anything out of the ordinary. In fact, she was fairly certain that they couldn't. And if that was the case, then where had this mysterious power come from? "I don't think so," she answered. "Are yours?"

"I don't know," he shrugged nonchalantly, "I never knew my parents."

"Oh." Hermione felt instantly contrite about some of her more unflattering thoughts toward the orphan boy. It went a long way in explaining his behavior—standoffish, rude, and overly familiar all at once. Who wouldn't be, without the guidance and support of a family?

He frowned darkly as if he could hear her pitying thoughts and snapped, "If the next words out of your mouth are, 'I'm sorry,' then I'm  _leaving_."

"No, don't go!" She rushed to stop him, unsure how to soothe down his ruffled feathers without being allowed to apologize. "We've only just met!"

The boy shuddered, features paling further as he lifted a hand to press against one of his temples. "It doesn't look like either of us have a choice in the matter," he told her, voice gone soft in what seemed like genuine discomfort. "I recognize this feeling—I'm going to be pulled back soon."

"You mean that popping in and out you do?" She asked hurriedly. Had he figured out some sort of teleportation? "Is that magic as well?"

"Yes," he replied simply. He looked faintly amused at the question, as if to ask her in turn what else that sort of power could be.

She ignored his teasing, reeling at the thought of being to travel anywhere she liked at will. "Can you teach me how to do it?"

* * *

Tom felt his smile slip a bit, not wanting to admit to her that he hadn't yet figure out how to control this fickle talent. Instead, he focused on the uncomfortable sensation pulling at the edges of his mind. A bit desperate, knowing he had mere moments left before he'd be sent back to 1935, he asked, "What's your name?"

The girl looked embarrassed at this oversight in manners. "Hermione," she replied, holding out her hand.

He accepted her greeting, shivering at the spark that jumped between them when his much larger hand closer around her delicate fingers. For a very brief moment, it was almost as if he'd been able to feel the core of her power in much the same way as he always felt his own. But he pushed the thought aside in favor of pursuing her surname, pressing "Hermione what?" Fifty-two years was a long time, after all. Was it possible that they were related?

Her response was less than he'd hoped for. "Granger. Who are you?"

Perhaps it was disappointment that stilled his tongue or simply inborn suspicion, but he had a feeling that giving her his real name would be a bad idea. "Tom Davies," he said instead. It was a common enough name, loathe thought he was to resort to commonality. But it wouldn't raise any eyebrows and that was more important right now. He wanted the girl to trust him, wanted to explore in what other ways they were similar and in which ways they might be different.

Hermione nodded at his name but seemed more inquisitive about their lingering handshake, though he didn't let go. Tom felt the pulling a bare second before it happened—a second that he used to tighten his grip on the girl's hand—and then, with a sharp  _crack_ , he was falling once more, landing heavily in the desolate play-yard of Wool's Orphanage.

* * *

_London, 1935_

But unlike last time, his hands were now empty. Hermione had not come along with him as he'd hoped. Her absence was deeply disappointing. There had been so many questions he'd wanted answers to, so many things they might have experimented on together. Now he simply found himself wondering what had gone wrong—as he so often did these days. The book had been able to travel through time, but not the girl.  _Why?_  Had she stopped him or was he simply not strong enough to bring something back that was so much comparatively larger than a novel?

A sound interrupted his thoughts. Amy Benson and Billy Stubbs stood exactly where Tom had left them, both looking at him now as though he were a ghost.

Stubbs rallied first, seeming furious as he asked, "Is that some kind of circus trick, Riddle?"

Tom straightened his coat and gave the other boy a disinterested look. "I don't know  _what_  you're nattering about."

"You think you're so clever, Riddle," the other boy sneered, "but you can't deny it; Amy saw what happened too."

They both looked to the girl in question, only to find that she was shaking her head and marching resolutely back to the door. "You're on your own, Stubbs," she threw coldly over her shoulder as she disappeared inside. "It's every man for himself where Riddle's concerned."

Her abandonment seemed to strike a nerve. Stubbs deflated and stalked off almost immediately, but it would only be a matter of time before he worked up the courage to throw out another challenge. Tom knew he would have to nip that in the bud—the sooner that the blond-haired idiot learned Tom Riddle was not someone to be crossed, the sooner Tom could turn his attention back to Hermione.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wee Tom Riddle is far too much fun to write; his perspective is so skewed and tyrannical!
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who left kudos, especially to ramofpride for commenting!
> 
> Please Comment!
> 
> Cross-posted at Fanfiction.net.


	3. He Is A Thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning! See note at end of chapter for details.

Chapter Three: He Is A Thief

_London, 1987_

With a small amount of regret, Hermione returned  _James and the Giant Peach_. She hadn't finished her read-through, but she didn't want to take any chances that the boy— _Tom_ , she reminded herself, he'd said his name was Tom—might come back and snatch the book away again. Their last meeting gave her hope that they'd reached some kind of mutual understanding, and in a lot of ways she supposed they had, but she wasn't sure if that extended to the book. Tom had been very determined to have it, at first; of course, by the end he hadn't seemed to care either way, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. So she returned it.

Standing at the threshold of circulation, Hermione bit nervously at her bottom lip and wondered if his thievery would extend to  _any_  book she happened to have with her. She hated to leave the library empty-handed. Worrying her lip a little more vigorously, she watched as her parents ambled through the periodicals and thought hard. Surely, so long as she was careful, she need not  _stop_  reading the borrowed stories altogether.

Mind made up, Hermione wandered over to the familiar shelves of the fantasy section. She'd wiled away many an hour among these stacks. Like a second home, she felt comfortable here—the children's assistants had long stopped trying to redirect her attention and largely left her to her own devices now, only making the occasional suggestion. Her fingers slid from cover to cover, savoring their various textures as she looked for something new.

What she found was actually quite old. A rough, blue/green linen-bound book sat high upon the shelf, looking quite out of place as if someone had set it down in a hurry. The cover-art was nonexistent, save for the entwining cobras stamped around the title:  _The Magician_. It looked a sinister read—like those gothic novels her mum had used to favour—and not at all something she'd enjoy, but the name of the book filled her with curiosity.

Hermione had  _met_  a magician, a strange boy who claimed he could control a range of mysterious powers. And if she herself had those same powers, that same magic, then it stood to reason she could learn to control it too. With practice, she could turn those impossible things that had so rarely happened into deliberate action—she could become a magician, like Tom.  _Perhaps even better than Tom_ , the competitive side of her whispered,  _if she worked hard._

With a surreptitious glance to be sure she was alone, Hermione began to focus on the book. It was well out of reach, but she lifted her hand up anyway. Her fingers trembled and she tried to recall how it had felt to levitate the rock. Energy spilled from her as she imagined a string tied between her and the novel; she jerked upon the string and the book came flying into her hands. She stared at it in delight—it had been so much easier this time, had taken much less effort—but she knew that practice made perfect.

She set the book upon a different shelf and called it to her at least a dozen times before attempting to perform the trick in reverse. Trying to put  _The Magician_  back where she'd found it was a lot more difficult; the novel wobbled sadly to and fro and she had a hard time getting it more than a few inches into the air before it simply came back to her. For all her previous success with the rock, she hadn't actually made it do any more than rise straight up for a few seconds. Guiding the movement of levitating objects  _away_  was proving a bit of a conundrum.

With a frustrated sigh, Hermione stopped her practicing. If only there were textbooks on this sort of thing! Perhaps Tom would be able to explain to her what she was doing wrong; she'd have to remember to ask him the next time they met.

After a quick peruse through the library, Hermione headed home with a fresh stack of books. She left  _The Magician_ behind, though—the card catalogue's description was indeed as dreadful as she'd imagined it would be.

* * *

_London, 1935_

Tom watched Billy Stubbs crumple to the floor and heave out great, ugly sobs. It took a lot of self-restraint to keep the pleasure he felt at the sight from showing on his face.

Wool's Orphanage was a desolate place, but for all that it had always been tidy. This was due, in large part, to the fact that there were no pets within the building. There were no rules against animals, per se—Mrs. Cole was willing to tolerate their presence so long as the child that wished to keep them proved responsible enough—but most of the children had learned not to invite them in. To care was folly; you could not fear losing something if you'd never had it in the first place. To love something, to hope that you could possess it always, was a weakness that the stronger children would unerringly exploit.

Amy Benson had tried to explain this to Billy Stubbs when he'd come in off the streets, soot-stained and trembling, still clearly traumatized by the sudden death of his family. He had not heeded her words though, clinging all the tighter to his little white rabbit—the last remnant of the happy life he'd previously led. In all other ways, Billy had adapted to life at the orphanage—learned to curse and spit and bruise his knuckles like the gang of boys he'd fallen into—but he guarded that rabbit jealously as if it might be able to transport him back to a time when his life had been simpler. The others had tittered at this foible and said he'd come around soon enough, but it was coming on four weeks now and the idiot's feelings had only grown stronger. So Tom had taken it upon himself to drive the lesson home.

The wailing drew a crowd, a sea of bright eyes taking in the swaying mop of fur that hung from the rafters and the grieving boy below. Some eyes were merely curious, others full of pity; many were simply resigned—word had gotten around about the scuff out in the play-yard, and everyone knew you didn't cross Riddle, particularly not if you had anything left to lose.

"What's going on?" Mrs. Cole demanded a bare minute later, no doubt drawn in by the terrible racket that Stubbs was making. No one answered, but then no one needed to for the Matron had quickly caught on. A gasp escaped her at the macabre spectacle. Stubbs' rabbit, that precocious ball of fluff which had unerringly sustained the boy through these trying weeks, was dead—hung from the ceiling, some ten or twelve feet up where no child could have reached.

Tom felt a little thrill go through him when Mrs. Cole's eyes met his. She clearly suspected him, and yet there was confusion there.  _How could he have done it, and when, without being caught?_  There were no other suspects, but the woman's limited understanding of the world offered her no tangible evidence that he was indeed guilty—and Mrs. Cole was many things, but clinically unjust was not one of them. Without proof, she would never dare to punish him. He had effectively rendered her powerless.

He pondered abstractly that her fear of him was seemingly in complete inverse to his age. Not even the teens gave her as much trouble as him—though, to be fair, there weren't many teens left at the orphanage. Few lingered long enough to age out. Most children jumped ship as soon as they could, usually by fourteen or fifteen, finding jobs that could take them away from Wool's loving embrace. No sense in old dogs sticking around when the punters only ever wanted puppies.

Tom took one last look at Stubbs' face. The blond was inconsolable in his grief, his features tearstained and twisted, a perfect mask of pain. He sobbed as if the world had ended, and Tom soaked in his cries like a cruel god at the most ancient of altars. Once he was sure that he'd seen the best of Stubbs' anguish, Tom slipped from the crowd and headed outside. It would look guilty, he knew, but he didn't care. He  _was_  guilty and no one could prove it.

The streets of London welcomed him with open arms—one more body added to the crush. He could go anywhere he liked,  _do_  anything he liked so long as he returned to Wool's before dark. Usually he wandered for the mere sake of it, learning the streets and the sights in an ever expanding map of familiarity. Today, however, he had a goal; fresh off his success with beating down Stubbs, he felt invincible. It was a good day to experiment.

The book had been able to travel through time with him, both backward and forward, but not Hermione. Was he restricted simply to inanimate objects? He burned to know the limits of this power so that he could figure out how to push and expand it.

With practiced ease, his fingers slipped into the pockets around him. London was hurting—the whole  _world_  was hurting—from the economic depression, but it had made pockets inversely full. Money was hardly worth a damn anymore since no one had it; people were back to bartering, carrying around their few precious items of worth in hopes of trading them for food of specified, if ignoble, origin. Watch fobs and pretty hair combs were fast becoming a new sort of currency, and Tom found himself with a handful of each by the time he reached his destination.

His harbor was an old fountain, sequestered and forgotten. Somehow, the city had grown around it until the fountain had ended up in a dingy old back alley—the building to its side had probably once been an avenue, but now it blocked the little stone structure in. No one ever visited the sad basin, no one seemed to even know it was there, and Tom had found that it was a handy place to go if he ever wanted to be truly alone.

As he settled upon the lip of the pool, Tom made some quick judgements. He estimated that his pockets were burdened with about twice the weight of Hermione's book and he'd managed to snatch a mouse on the way over. If the trinkets didn't come through it was perhaps a problem of weight or volume; if the mouse didn't come then it was more likely that the problem had something to do with living creatures. He wasn't quite sure what it would mean if nothing came through with him, except that maybe the book had been somehow special.

Tom held the mouse in one long-fingered hand and took a deep breath, clearing his thoughts. He focused intently on Hermione, rather than nebulous ideas of the future, and drew purposefully upon his magic. The pressure at his temple built and subsequently  _snapped_  almost instantly—no week-long struggle to grasp at it, so either he was getting better at this or it helped to have a specific person to think upon. But unlike before he was greeted by a momentary darkness, a stretching void that unsettled him greatly.

* * *

_London, 1987_

Hermione snuggled into her pillows, wiggling and burrowing into their warmth as she read a copy of  _The Witches_.

It was a dreary Saturday; a cold rain had been pounding at the windows since before dawn, putting a stop to any ideas of going outside to play. With her homework already finished and revised and nothing much else to do, Hermione had given in to the inevitable. Not that she minded, a gloomy backdrop always put her in the mood to read. She was halfway through the novel before a familiar  _crack_  startled her.

Tom stood next to her window looking shaken, his dark eyes wide for a moment until he regained his composure. He glanced to one of his hands—pale digits closed loosely around air—and frowned in disappointment.

"Did you lose something?" She asked curiously.

He patted at his bulging pockets and hummed noncommittally, but didn't actually answer. Instead, he took in his environment.

Hermione wondered what her room looked like through his eyes. It wasn't very large, she knew, but it was well appointed. She had a bed, chifferobe, nightstand, desk, and bookshelves—all painted white with brief accents of more vibrant colors. There weren't many toys, but she'd never found much use in idle playthings. Other girls her age had dollhouses and little chests stuffed with frilly costumes to play pretend in. Though she had an active imagination, she'd never liked those sort of things and her parents respected that; they bought her books and puzzles and quiz games instead. Hermione had never once felt bad about her inclination toward the practical and yet, all the same, she found herself worried about Tom's opinion. Would he think her strange? Would he find it distasteful that she wasn't more like 'proper' girls?

But Tom seemed merely curious as he ran his fingers over her clock and the line of blue faeries stenciled into her windowsill. He prodded experimentally at her radio, fascinated by the collapsible antenna and the set-in dials. "We aren't at the schoolyard," he noted softly, speaking at last.

Hermione raised a brow at this. Had he assumed she lived at the school? Why would she be there on a weekend? "It's Saturday, silly."

He nodded carefully, as if filing this information away although she didn't understand why the day of the week should be so important to him. After another quiet moment of fiddling, he finally looked up, eyes briefly drawn to  _The Witches_. Nervously she shoved the book under a pillow, but he only rolled his eyes at the obvious move. Instead of commenting, he gestured around and asked, "Is this your room?"

Another strange question but, after all, he was a strange boy, so she indulged him. "Well, where else would it be?"

Tom drifted from the window, eyeing her fluffy duvet for a moment before he settled at the foot of her bed. "Since we met both times at your school, I thought perhaps it was the location that was significant," he explained. "Then again, I tried very specifically to find you this time, rather than just travel in general."

Hermione felt her heart speed up with excitement. She'd been bursting to talk about magic to someone— _anyone_ —but she'd held her tongue and swallowed the impulse. Somehow, she got the feeling that no one would believe her except for Tom. But now he was here and talking about the fascinating way he moved about.

"Where is it that you come from?" The question spilled from her lips before she could stop herself because, in truth, the boy was just as mysterious as the magic they seemed to share.

He looked out the rain-speckled window and shrugged. "London."

"Oh." She deflated a little, having to remind herself that it was still impressive he'd traveled by magic at all. "Well, you're still in London. Are you from the Boys' Home?"

Tom frowned in confusion and turned back to her, dark eyes pinning her down like a butterfly. "What?"

"Dillant's Home For Wayward Boys?" Hermione gestured vaguely, suddenly sorry she'd brought it up at all. "It's a couple of streets over, and you said you didn't know your parents so I thought—"

"No," he cut her off, frown disappearing. Thankfully, he didn't seem quite so touchy about the subject as he had before. "I'm from a place called Wool's, down by the East side."

She pondered that news for a moment. "Never heard of it, but the East side's quite far." Then, unable to help herself, "Can you travel to places outside the city?"

"Yes, I rather think I could eventually, but this trick is still quite new to me, Hermione," he replied. "So far, it's only brought me to you."

"How curious! Do you think it's because I'm magic as well?"

"Could be," he shrugged easily. However, in the space of a heartbeat, he stiffened once more and added in a stilted voice, "Although, it seemed… more  _difficult_  to find you this time. Almost as if you were  _further_  away. Perhaps, if I had something of yours to focus on—"

Hermione had an idea where this was going so she immediately told him, "I've already returned the book, so there's no point in asking."

But Tom shook his head and moved closer. "I don't think it  _has_ to  _be_  the book," he admitted, licking his lips. "Anything, really, so long as it's yours."

She wasn't sure how to process that thought. On the one hand, it did make a certain sort of sense—having something to focus on, a starting point of some fashion, seemed practical. On the other hand, there was no reason to believe it was true no matter how logical it sounded. Still… she wanted Tom to keep visiting and, on the off chance that something of hers  _might_  make that journey easier, she was happy to help.

Mind made up, Hermione slipped off the bed and began examining her shelves. What sort of thing would work best? She was loathe to give him a book, selfish as that sounded, and she didn't think he'd be terribly enthusiastic if she tried to hand him a stuffed animal. Her eyes finally landed on a white lace kerchief—she used it sometimes when it was windy out in a sorry attempt to keep her hair from tangling up any further.

Snagging the scrap of fabric, she held it out to him and asked, "How about this?"

Tom eyed it critically, as if debating something. After a long pause, he cocked his head to the side and returned, "Have you used it often?"

"Does that matter?" It belatedly occurred to her that the kerchief was one of the very few distinctly girly things in her room. No boy would have willingly taken it.

"I don't know," he replied, and he seemed to have trouble getting those simple words out, "but it might help to have something that's been exposed to your magic."

Hermione frowned at that. She didn't think she'd even known about magic—let alone practiced it—long enough for anything to have truly been exposed to her. She thought hard about her last meeting with the boy, about her explorations in the library. Had she worn any of the same clothes? A pair of socks maybe, or…? An idea flashed through her mind and she quickly began rolling up her sleeve. Her bracelet! How had she not thought of that first? She'd worn the thing everyday since she'd got it.

Taking the bracelet off quickly, she handed it over to him with a quiet, "Here." It was not an intricate creation by any means—a string of bright glass beads that she usually had to loop around her wrist twice. "I won this at a funfair," she explained. "It's not worth anything, but I've always liked it."

Tom did not hesitate this time. He took the bracelet immediately, running the smooth beads through his fingers before he looped it around his wrist. The innocuous piece of jewelry looked even brighter on him, presented as it was on the backdrop of his grey uniform. When he finally looked up, his eyes glinted with an emotion that she couldn't quite interpret.

* * *

The glass baubles fairly burned against Tom's skin. He was awash in a riot of envy and covetous desire. Hermione's world was richly textured; her room was  _cozy_ , a bastion of light and warmth that kept the bitter rains at bay. It was a sharp contrast to his own room, a barren and sterile cell that he spent as much time out of as possible. God, how he  _wanted_  this place, wanted this  _life!_  It was cruel that he knew he couldn't stay, that eventually he would find himself in his own time.

_One day_ , he vowed,  _I will live in this sort of luxury_.

He shook the thoughts away and returned to the matter at hand. Though he hadn't cared for its results, his experiment had been successful; something about his power made it impossible to carry other living creatures through time with him. He'd also found out that there was something very specific about Hermione that seemed to guide his movements—perhaps, as she'd suggested, it was because she too was magic.

Either way, he knew now that he could not bring her with him but could continue to visit her. It wasn't nearly as convenient as having her at Wool's, but it was still something. And he thought, maybe, that the traveling was getting easier, but he wanted to avoid the blankness at all costs. The abyssal nothingness had lasted only a brief second, but he hadn't liked it and it made him nervous. What if Hermione continued to move further and further away? Would there come a point when he would no longer be able to access her? The thought was unacceptable.

Tom dug through his pockets, fingering an especially unique hair comb before he abandoned it in favour of a watch fob. "Here," he motioned for her to hold out her arm, carefully winding the fob around her delicate wrist. It took a moment of fiddling with the latch hooks, but he finally managed to secure it in place, and he sat back to admire his handiwork. The double-stranded, beveled links of silver had likely once been part of a lady's ensemble, and stood out sharply around Hermione's wrist. "I don't know if it'll come back through with me though, so don't get too attached," he warned her. "If it stays, I figure it might act like a beacon. Something of yours to get me through and something of mine to guide me."

The girl was struck momentarily speechless, he realized with a bit of pride. As well she should be, seeing as he never shared anything. When she did speak, her voice was quiet and low, "Why wouldn't it stay?"

"I get pulled back," he shrugged, trying to find the right words without telling her point blank that he was from the past, "I think because I belong there. Your book stayed with me though, so things of yours can come and stay, but I don't know if things of mine can. It might get pulled back with me when I go."

Hermione nodded absently, running curious fingers over the makeshift bracelet. The heavy chain was probably worth something—the fine filigree and careful etching fairly screamed that it had been someone's family heirloom—but it was more useful around her wrist than in his pocket. Back home it would fetch him little more than a mouthful of bread, whereas here it could at least establish some connection between him and the girl.

She seemed briefly flustered that the bracelet she'd given him was not of equal quality, but then she didn't quite understand what it was he valued. The monetary worth of the bracelet didn't interest him—his London would only be impressed by a handful of pure gold, so what did it matter how much something actually cost?—it was the  _idea_  of it that mattered most. She'd  _given_  it to him, this little treasure that she'd won with skill and cunning; she'd relinquished it to his keeping. Now he'd done the same for her, given up a trinket of his own; he could think of no better way to tie them together. And it was a thrill to see the twin ropes of silver flash upon her arm, to know that in some small way he was affecting the future—almost as much of a thrill as seeing her beads at his own wrist and knowing he was carrying at least some part of Hermione back with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Canonical animal abuse! That poor rabbit; it's been killed in basically every story that explores Tom Riddle's life at Wool's.
> 
> To anyone interested, the book Hermione practices her magic on was written by W. Somerset Maugham and was first published in 1908. I've not read it, personally, but its synopsis and cover seemed thematically appropriate.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who left kudos, especially to Azhwi for commenting!
> 
> Please Comment!
> 
> Cross-posted at Fanfiction.net.


	4. He Is Disappointed

Chapter Four: He Is Disappointed

_London, 1935_

Tom sat in the darkness of his room, watching the pre-dawn light spill against the featureless walls. He had been awake for some time, running the beaded bracelet through his fingertips as he contemplated the inherent flaw in his own logic. He'd assumed that exchanging items with Hermione might ease his journey through time—a belief that he'd had no evidence to support. It was possible that the bracelets might still be able to smooth over his trips into the future, but they had done little to soothe his travel back into the past.

The void had stretched before him—endless and terrifying—for  _twice_  as long as before. He could feel an unfortunate trend developing: each new journey would take a little longer than before as that wretched nothingness threatened to swallow him whole. What exactly was the void, and why had it made its presence known? He had left 1935 on a Saturday and arrived in 1987 also on a Saturday, so he had a suspicion that time was passing at an even and uniform rate between him and Hermione. And yet, somehow, her world appeared to be casually drifting away from him, seconds at a time. Why?

For all his knowledgeability, Tom had to admit that he didn't know much about time-travel. That would have to become his priority, he  _needed_  to understand. After all, forewarned was forearmed; if he consumed as much information on the subject as he could, he might be able to find a way to make his power more effective, more efficient. Hermione was the only other person he knew that possessed magic, he could not lose her to something so infuriating as inadequacy.

His focus shifted at thoughts of Hermione, and he griped his beads tighter still as he pondered the mysterious girl. What was this gift they shared, where did it come from, and why did it only seem to affect the two of them? He'd thought that maybe they were related—fifty-two years was more than enough time to pass the genes down—but in the wake of her surname it didn't really seem likely. Had the magic somehow chosen them? They were both intelligent—based on her love of reading or how quick she was to take instruction—and both around the same age. But that seemed to be the end of it. They shared many  _more_  points of difference: different genders, different sizes, different generations, different home-lives.

_Different levels of control?_

Tom had been experimenting with his magic for years; he really only had a set number of tricks, but he could do them  _well_. Hermione, on the other hand, only just seemed to be discovering her magic; she had little to no control  _except_  for when he'd told her how to do something. However, she had absorbed his instructions quickly, as if she'd intuitively known what to do all along but had needed someone to put the idea into words. The concept intrigued Tom: here was a girl who had the potential to rival him as no one ever had before, someone who could meet him step for step as they both grew in power. He'd never really been challenged before and the idea was so novel he decided right away that he would teach her as much as he could.

Dawn was now spilling through the room, and Tom watched the light creep along with a curious emotion thrumming through him. He'd never allied himself with anyone before; there'd never been any need. He ruled the play-yard with a silent fist and he slipped around London like a specter. There had never once been a challenge so large he could not handle it on his own, so he'd remained isolated. At Wool's, hangers on would have been nothing short of a liability. But he contemplated that small girl from the future and shivered. If she proved capable, what greatness might they be able to achieve together?

* * *

_Several weeks later, London, 1987_

Tom wasn't exactly her friend, Hermione decided some weeks later. The boy was aloof, sometimes even cruel for no reason she could discern other than that he  _could_  be. There was something altogether callous and greedy about him that didn't sit quite right. Yet he still visited her and she still eagerly met him—they shared a camaraderie of  _some_  sort. She chalked a lot of his behavior up to being an orphan—he wouldn't have had the opportunity to develop certain social skills and that would leave him both shy and detached—as well as his being a boy. How many times had she seen Andy Smythe being mean just because he could? Tom's behavior wasn't really so different.

And yet it was, in a way. There was a coldness in Tom that she'd never seen in anyone else, a calculating and exacting nature that seemed out of place in a boy so young. However, he  _was_  slowly warming to her—his behavior was still rather authoritarian and he took liberties whenever it pleased him—but he'd started asking her opinion about things, at least. In another month, he might even actually care about what she had to say.

So, no, they weren't really friends, but Hermione thought they might be on their way  _toward_  friendship. She wasn't exactly sure, truth be told—for all her cleverness, she had never really gotten the hang of making friends. Most children her age didn't understand her, and she got the feeling that Tom faced much the same problem in his own life. They were perfectly matched in so many respects, if only they could just clear this last emotional hurdle. But perhaps it was simply a matter of time—Tom held himself isolated, a self-contained island that could not be hurt by the strain of being an orphan—and Hermione knew how to be patient. She could endure his behavior on the hope that he would continue opening up to her.

And it wasn't as if she got nothing out of the relationship. He might occasionally snap and glower at her, but it was worth it for the magic he shared. So far Tom had taught her how to move objects in  _all_  directions, even at different speeds, and was currently trying to teach her how to control animals. This latest trick wasn't going quite so well—she didn't really understand  _how_  he connected to the animals. Every time she tried for herself, she got the dizzying sense she was actually in the poor creature's head, torn between two different bodies. How could he focus like that with his attention so divided?

"I don't know why you're having so much trouble with this," he said offhandedly while flipping another page in the book he was reading. He'd been bringing a lot of his own books, now that she thought about it—Twain and Wells and some french name she didn't recognize. She thought perhaps he was working on a project of some kind. "You got the hang of levitation quickly enough."

Hermione huffed at the quiet accusation. "That was different."

He raised a dark brow but didn't glance at her. "Why?"

She hated his inattention and careless mocking. He was supposed to be teaching her, wasn't he? Working herself up into a lather—disappointed in herself and irritated with him—she replied, "We only moved inanimate objects, which obviously didn't have any thoughts on the matter." She jerked a thumb toward the scruffy looking stray she'd been attempting to practice on. "This cat, however, has a lot of thoughts and it's distracting."

Tom finally looked up from his reading, and fixed her with that slight smile of his—it was the barest quirking of his lips, but carried with it an immeasurable sense of amused superiority. "You're trying too hard," he told her, eyes dropping to his book once more. "You don't need to connect so deep as to know what it's thinking in order to make it obey."

Hermione felt like stamping her feet at the uselessness of that advice. Instead, she marched up to him, slipped the book from his fingers, and hissed, "I don't know how to try  _less_."

His eyes darkened briefly, like the shadow of a cloud sailing across the sun, and she knew he was angry at her attention seeking. "Do this, then: stop thinking of it as a connection." He took on a mocking edge as he reclaimed his novel and continued, "You're not communing with the animal, politely asking it to please do a trick for us." And then a curious thing happened: his voice dropped slightly, flattening into a fervent command, "Envelope it with your will.  _Make it obey_."

But this wasn't like imagining sticks and strings and levers—none of her previous visual mnemonics would work. The only thing she could think to try was to picture herself moving the cat by hand—bending and twisting the little paws as she desired—but that seemed cruel somehow. The animals had never appeared to resist Tom's control, but for the first time she wondered what the experience was really like for them. "Will that hurt the cat?"

"Who cares," he snorted, rolling his eyes.

Hermione couldn't believe her ears. " _I do_ ," she bit back. She had always sensed the coldness in him, but this particular disregard seemed genuinely wrong. "I won't torture the poor creature; if it's going to be painful then I don't want to learn this magic trick!"

Tom frowned angrily and stood from his seat on the bench, towering over her as he snapped, "Don't be such a girl!"

"I'm serious," she replied, holding her ground.

Her answer flustered him and he seemed momentarily nonplussed. But he recovered quickly and began needling. "How is this any different than what animal trainers do? You think they don't administer endless months of punishment until their charges finally learn a new trick? What we're doing here is probably far more kind."

She could see the logic in his argument, but there was doubt in her mind now. One thing she had really learned about Tom over the last few weeks was that he was very careful with his words; he was astoundingly good at convincing someone of falsehoods without actually having to lie. So just because he said something was more kind didn't necessarily mean it was pain free. Recognizing his verbal hook for what it was, she pressed, "Will it hurt the cat?"

"I don't know, Hermione," Tom snapped, his eyes narrowing as he took a step away from her in disgust, "but if you're going to whine so much about it maybe you don't deserve to learn how to do this."

* * *

He watched in satisfaction as Hermione panicked. Strange, considering she apparently didn't want to learn the trick, but the idea of knowledge passing her by always seemed to make the girl frantic. To be honest, Tom felt frustrated enough that he was considering withholding this particular bit of magic from her for a while anyway. Her little moral hangups were beginning to irritate him. Power was power, and the fact that she refused to grasp at something well within her reach was just baffling. And it wasn't even  _her_  cat, so what did she care if it got hurt in the process?

They stood frowning at each other for a few moments, neither one seeing eye to eye. He was about to ask if she just wanted to go back to levitation since that at least was something she  _could_  do, when someone stumbled upon their hidden bench. No one had ever found them before and this interruption was hardly welcome.

The boy reminded him of Billy Stubbs—God save him from blond idiots!—a soft soul hidden behind a falsely mean look. The wretch barked out a laugh as he eyed the girl. "It's true," he crowed. "Lenny Spiers said he'd seen you playing with someone, but I thought there was  _no way_  that the bushy-haired beaver could have made a friend."

Hermione appeared to fold into herself ever so slightly, face going red as she mumbled, "Go away, Andy."

"What did you call her?" Tom demanded of the other boy. As far as he was concerned, this thing was a worm compared to her—she had magic, all he would ever have were empty words. It was a travesty that the idiot was even allowed to speak to her.

"Didn't you know?" Andy cooed meanly. "You must be new. Hermione here is the class suck-up—anything to be first to answer the teacher—and it might be tolerable if she didn't look like something the janitor's pulled out of a plugged drain."

Tom could already see the pattern of abuse taking shape, the systematic bullying she had likely endured. "Does he bother you like this a lot?" He asked her, but he didn't really need her answer. She looked different, acted and thought different—a target if ever there was one, and too timid to use her power against those that deserved her wrath.

Andy laughed again, a grating sound that set his teeth on edge, and answered, "How could I? No one actually wants to talk to her since she'd probably just correct your sentence structure."

Hermione shifted closer to him. He'd seen that move before—it was the way Amy drew close to Billy or Martha hid behind Mrs. Cole—she was seeking some kind of assurance or protection. No one had ever looked to him for safety before, but he supposed it made sense as he was the more magically proficient of the two.

"He's just jealous of my grades," she said, putting on a brave front. "Mum tells me not to pay it any mind."

"Jealous of you?" Andy sneered. "The friendless mop?"

A puzzling hiccup happened at the back of Tom's thoughts—he could feel himself flushing with anger on Hermione's behalf. The more this worthless piece of filth blabbered on the redder he got. But perhaps it wasn't really so puzzling; he'd chosen this singular girl from the future to be his ally, so in truth any insult against her was an insult against him as well. And if there was one thing Tom knew, it was how to deal with disrespectful pests. "She isn't alone," he snapped darkly, darting toward the other boy.

However, Andy apparently didn't know the first thing about fighting, which only fueled Tom's temper. Why throw out a challenge if you lacked the strength to back it up? Were people in the future really so weak that they didn't even know how to throw a punch? Not that Tom resorted to fisticuffs often—he only ever used the fight as a front to slip in his magic. It was a careful game of misdirection that Andy didn't have the decency to succumb to. Then again, why was he bothering to hide himself at all? Tom had done his best to keep his magic a secret so as not to destroy the balance he'd struck with Mrs. Cole, but there  _was_  no Mrs. Cole in the future. Why  _not_  send the brat flying?

So he did, watching happily as Andy slammed duly into the bench.

" _Tom_ ," Hermione gasped his name admonishingly and moved away from him, hurrying over to see if the blond was okay.

But Tom was only getting started. He concentrated on lifting the other boy, which was difficult since Andy was scrambling to put the bench between them.

" _Stop it_ ," she growled, and her order would have fallen on deaf ears if not for one thing. With a  _pop_  and a  _hiss_ , the bench erupted into flame, breaking his visual contact with the blond.

Tom watched, momentarily marveled, as the flames danced across the wooden slats without actually consuming it—imagine, a fire that didn't burn!—before the implication finally dawned. Hermione had stopped him. He had taken it upon himself to deal with her bully, and  _she'd stopped him_. It certainly wasn't the most grateful gesture he'd ever seen, in fact it smacked a bit of  _betrayal_. He'd never tried to help anyone before, not once, and her interference in this felt like a gift refused. She had no problem accepting his magic or his company, but when it came right down to it she apparently hadn't accepted  _him_. Not really.

The fire disappeared as quickly as it had been conjured, revealing Andy who was shaking on the ground. Tom wanted the boy gone.  _Now_. He walked over to the blond, knelt close beside him and threatened, "If you tell anyone what you saw—"

Andy looked up, watery blue eyes meeting menacing black. "I'll be quiet, I swear," he promised and then was off like lightning, leaving the two young magicians alone.

Tom stood slowly to his feet, not prepared to face Hermione as he fought down his wildly swirling thoughts. Softly, carefully, he asked, "Why did you stop me?"

"He was just being rude," she replied in a small voice.

"Never give that sort of power to your bullies, Hermione," he shouted, spinning around to confront her. "If you roll over every time, they'll keep coming back to pick on you." How could she not understand that? And what exactly had she hoped to achieve, anyway? No matter which way he looked at it, she'd practically given Andy permission to continue bullying her. Which wouldn't have matter if she hadn't publicly rebuffed Tom's protection—he could have been there to support her until she was strong enough to support herself—but she'd pretty much just cut herself off at the knees, as far as he was concerned.

As if she could hear the direction of his thoughts, Hermione was wringing her hands and looking distraught. "I just didn't want anyone getting hurt."

It was such a simpleminded answer, the sort of thing he might have expected any girl at the orphanage to bleat out. He was furious and…  _disappointed_  to realize that she wasn't any different from the others. "Magic really is just wasted on you, isn't it," he snapped coldly. Weeks of time wasted in her presence! Weeks that he could have spent figuring out a way to access the future without having to find her first! And to think he'd considered her special, unique even; he never should have gone to the trouble of getting to know her in the first place. "I don't know why I should bother visiting if you're always going to be this hesitant about using your power."

She took a step forward, her magic swirling around her as if to remind him that she existed in a state of raw potential. She could be  _taught_. "Tom—"

But he wasn't listening, blinded and deafened by outrage. "I'm going home," he told her plainly. Her eyes went teary bright at that proclamation and the fact that he didn't completely enjoy the sight only made him angrier. "I don't suppose I'll be back any time soon."

* * *

Hermione tried to reach out to the boy, but he swatted her hand away and vanished. She couldn't quite wrap her head around what had happened. Tom had left, maybe for good, and for what? Because she'd tried to protect Andy Smythe? The wispy blond was the bane of her existence; he mocked her at every opportunity. For two years, he'd belittled everything about her from her looks to her personality, and he was one of the main reasons she didn't have any friends at school. Yet she'd felt the need to protect him from the one boy she thought she might be able to call her friend. But she hadn't had a choice, really.

Something dark had slithered around Tom in that moment, a giddy fierceness that unsettled her. His black eyes had burned with cruelty and she'd somehow known that he wouldn't stop until he'd made Andy bleed. Part of her had been shocked—that he should be so terrifyingly mean, so cleanly uncaring whether he got them all into trouble or worse—but another part of her had been intrigued. Tom was without boundary, magic had whirled around him so thick she was surprised it hadn't been visible; in that instant, he had been carefree and untethered, a creature pure power. She could be like that too, and the idea of it was more tempting than it had any right to be.

But her parents had raised her to be a good girl, and that meant stopping a fight if it was within her ability. The fire had been an accident—much like the first time she'd summoned a book—but it had gotten Tom's attention. Andy had slipped quickly away, and then she had watched in muted frustration as her relationship with the fascinating orphan boy fell apart before her very eyes. Tom had been furious with her and she wasn't entirely certain, but she thought it might have been because his feelings had got hurt. But, really, he just didn't get it; it wasn't okay to wield that sort of pain so reflexively. If he didn't understand that, he wouldn't have made a very good friend anyway. And yet…

Hermione thought over the last few weeks. Tom had been patient, helping her unravel the little blocks to her control, allowing her to find her own way of using magic. He'd encouraged her in a sparse but comforting sort of fashion, even silently praised her on occasion. Yes, he could be mean and mocking, but the sheer wonder of what he'd taught her to do had easily outweighed that. So in spite of it all—in spite of the small frisson of fear and curiosity he'd sparked, in spite of the moral outrage and hurt he'd inspired—she knew that she would still miss him for however long he was away.

And she couldn't help but wonder: would he ever come back?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The magical equivalent of, "I'm going home and taking all my toys with me!" Poor Tom just wasn't quite prepared for the emotional strain of socializing.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who left kudos!
> 
> Please Comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	5. He Is Reconsidering

Chapter Five: He is Reconsidering

_London, 1935_

Tom raged for days. Not even the fact the Billy Stubbs was too terrified to do so much as look him in the eyes improved his mood. His thoughts fairly screamed in outrage. He kept going over the event in his head and the more he reviewed the scenario, the angrier he got.

Hermione had moved toward him initially, a clear sign that she had wanted his protection. He'd done nothing wrong, merely complied with her wishes! And yet she had acted horrified, had moved  _away_  from him in the end. Tom couldn't wrap his mind around the whys of it. Why had she reacted like that? Why had she not wanted to see the suffering of her tormentor? Why had she sided against him? Had he earned no loyalty from her whatsoever?

The idea that he might have had more invested in their relationship than her itched uncomfortably. Had she played him? Had she thought she was learning magic without having to pay anything in return? From her point of view it did seem like an uneven interaction in her favour, but she hadn't known that he was getting knowledge of future from her. And Hermione was clever—if she'd sensed that perceived power imbalance, it wasn't unreasonable to assume that she  _hadn't_  gotten attached to him at all. He'd merely been a means to an end for her. Not that Tom himself had really  _cared_  in return, but he'd still thought that there had been some kind of connection between them. How could she have chosen to stand beside that worthless bully rather than her comrade in arms?

He had wasted weeks of time teaching her parlour tricks when he could have been exploring the London of the future! The missed opportunity practically made him seethe. He had to find a way to reach the future without showing up anywhere near Hermione. It had to be possible; he refused to lose this precious gift to someone so undeserving of his attention.

Traveling through time had become marginally easier each successive instance that Tom had done it, though the void had continued to greet him seconds at a time in either direction no matter how much he concentrated on the bracelets. Still, the point was that it didn't take as much energy and it was getting easier and easier to focus his magic. Unfortunately, these improvements had hinged upon Hermione—thoughts of her had made it possible to direct himself to the future in a matter of moments as opposed to days. On the occasions where he'd tried to reach 1987 without focusing his thoughts on the girl, he'd only succeeded in frustrating himself and causing some sort of painful magical buildup.

The pattern held, much to his ire. He'd hope that having gained so much control over his new power might have made a difference, but it clearly hadn't. No matter how intently he focused, no matter how deeply he dove within himself, the magic simply wouldn't connect. He'd accidentally shattered four different windows, a dinner plate, and at least two of Mrs. Cole's hidden gin bottles, but those were the only results he'd produced. Well, that and the return of his blinding headache—it felt like the entire left side of his head was inflamed, his eye screwed shut more often than not as the intense shards of his own unexpelled magic lanced through him.

The obvious conclusion was that he'd failed to fully understand this power. Clearly time-travel was merely a side effect—it was in fact the girl that he was traveling to for some reason. But Tom refused to think of her. Why give her the satisfaction? He'd lingered near her far longer than he should have in the first place. This resolution did present him with a problem, though. If his time-traveling had only been incidental, then how was he meant to replicate it?

As the season turned wet and cold and the trees finally lost the last of their foliage, Tom was forced to set the issue aside. He'd started noticing a slight thrumming in virtually every room he walked into and he'd nearly immobilized himself with the pain of his repeated failures. It was almost like a magical poisoning—he'd pulled so much of his power to the surface that it was beginning to make him ill.

And so, in the interest of recovering, he'd decided to to temporarily turn his attention elsewhere: fire that could not burn. The idea of having such control that he could change the very nature of something so elemental was fascinating to him. Intellectually, Tom understood fire—his science lessons provided a poor excuse for an education, but they were still enough for him to draw appropriate conclusions. Fire was an energy reaction. His magic could easily provide the catalyst to light a fire, but how to prevent it from burning?

He threw himself into experimentation, barely noticing as the autumn gave way to an early winter. By the time Christmas drew near—a barely observed holiday at the orphanage under the best of circumstances—he'd managed far more than he'd dared dream. Not only could he conjure a non-burning fire, he could turn the flames any colour he wished and was well on his way to creating a variation that would not extinguish without being purposefully banished. It was, perhaps, one of the greatest magical feats he'd achieved to date, time-travel aside. And yet… the sight of a bright purple flame dancing non-destructively through his room left him feeling empty. He had no one to share this new magic trick with—half the fun of  _that girl_  had been how impressed she always was with him.

After so staunchly refusing to think of her for so long, Tom found his thoughts lingering on Hermione. He… missed her, in some capacity. She was still the only person he'd ever met with the same gifts as himself. He missed being able to speak freely of magic, of being able to explore the concept with someone who was just as eager to find its boundaries as he was. It seemed a little silly, in retrospect, to completely cut her out of his life just because of a misstep. But what was to stop her from betraying him again, especially when he hadn't really figured out why she'd done it in the first place?

And then the reason finally struck him, and it was so simple that he could have laughed at himself for not realizing it sooner. For all her cleverness and aptitude for magic, Hermione was still a girl. Even the girls at the orphanage—hardened and bitter hags trapped in the bodies of young children—were gentler and more emotional than the boys. Hermione had done only what the instincts of her gender had asked her to, which meant she hadn't consciously betrayed him. She'd still been angry with him though, and that'd had nothing to do with her being a girl. Loathe though he was to admit it, he knew it was his own fault—he had been approaching Hermione in completely the wrong way.

Tom had known from a young age that certain people just had to be handled  _differently_. Take Mrs. Cole, for example: she held a tenuous position of authority over him and though he could challenge that, it wouldn't gain him anything significant in the end to do so. In fact, if the Matron tipped over her delicate precipice of fear, she could make Tom's life marginally more difficult and certainly more painful. Their relationship was a constant balancing act, keeping her on the knife's edge of anxiety and fear, but never giving her so much of either that she felt the need to properly react.

He'd failed to balance his relationship with Hermione; he'd given her extremes of profit and pain without any plateaus between. She had to be compelled to  _want_  his presence, and that meant showing her a personality worth being around. Tom had never been obliged to charm someone, but really how hard could it be? Hermione was usually agreeable enough on her own, and she'd fairly glowed with pride on the rare occasion that he'd complimented her. A few extra kind words here and there, maybe a smile or two, and there was no reason to assume she wouldn't become attached. And once he had her by the nose, her wayward behavior could be corrected over time. She was shy of using her power, but he could build her up to it slowly, particularly if she didn't realize that's what he was doing.

But how to initially bridge this gap between them? He needed something to ingratiate himself, to make her  _want_  to invite him back into her life. A gift of some sort, perhaps? That didn't seem quite enough, though. He hated to manufacture pity, but he to admit that Hermione's heart was foolish enough to eclipse her reason in the face of such emotion. And nothing would induce more pity than an unsubtle reminder that he was a lonely orphan. A Christmas visit, perhaps—a time when the rest of the world was surrounded by luxury and joyful loved ones? She would likely be more forgiving in the spirit of the season. But no, he knew there was one day that might inspire more tender-hearted nonsense from her than Christmas. New Year's Eve—his birthday.

* * *

_London, 1987_

Hermione kept a constant eye out for Tom, but he didn't return and the days crawled by sluggishly without him. She still practiced her magic, of course, but it wasn't quite as exciting in his absence. The thrill of discovery paled when there was no one to share it with. She had become rather listless in response.

Her parents had asked several times if something was wrong and Hermione had thought long and hard about telling them everything. They were her family, after all, they deserved to know the truth. But, in the end, fear had stayed her tongue. What if they didn't believe her? What if she panicked and couldn't prove to them that she had magic? Or worse, what if they  _did_ believe her and were frightened of her unusual power? Would they send her away to be studied by doctors? Hermione loved her parents—above all, she considered them to be calm and rational people—and the idea that she might lose them, physically or emotionally, tied her stomach into ugly knots. She'd  _already_ lost Tom, she could not afford to be separated from her family as well!

Without her taciturn almost-friend, the holiday season was shaping up to be rather gloomy this year. The idea of being proactive had struck her at one point; she need not wait on him, after all. To be honest though, she wasn't sure what they would say to each other after such a fight. But she refused to think on it. One problem at a time; first, she had to locate him. Tom had said he lived in London, so perhaps she might be able to find him; it would be easier than searching the whole of England, anyway. But, unfortunately, London was still a big city, and she wasn't sure if Wool's was the name of a district, street, or building. Her search had dead-ended almost immediately since there wasn't much else to go on—aside from his name, of course, but Tom Davies was far too common a name be at all helpful in locating him.

She was bitterly disappointed at this turn of events, her already black mood souring further. It wasn't fair that he controlled when they met! Hermione had tried to ask him about how he traveled, but each time he'd waved her off with a vague excuse— _I'm still experimenting, it's too soon, you're not ready, learn the small stuff first_ —and eventually she'd stopped inquiring. Now, she was completely at the mercy of his whims, and it wasn't at all pleasant. If Tom ever came back, they would have to figure out a way of communicating over distances; she needed a way to contact him until he finally taught her how to travel. Hermione was momentarily surprised that they hadn't thought to exchanged telephone numbers—it would be such an easy solution—but then realized that, as an orphan, he might not have access to a telephone.

Christmas came and went with its usual fanfare—a whirlwind of gatherings and parties that had her setting aside her tumultuous thoughts in favour of celebration. However, all too soon, the joy faded. With Christmas behind her, the winter stretched before Hermione like an endless sea. She wasn't even looking forward to the start of the new term as her classmates had become meaner than ever. True to his word, Andy had not told anyone what he'd witnessed Tom and Hermione do that fateful afternoon, but he'd taken to calling her a witch whenever they crossed paths. The new nickname had spread through the school like wildfire. Secretly, she thought that this was better than being compared to a beaver, but the spirit of their teasing was still hurtful. Tom had briefly provided her with a safe bastion away from the cruelty of her peers, but she had little hope that he would reappear before the new term began.

Which was probably why she was so delightfully surprised on New Year's Eve.

Her parents had gone out to a party, leaving her behind. Hermione didn't usually mind the lackadaisical teen they hired to look after her, but she'd been quite morose all day and had decided to go to bed early.

Her bedroom was barely lit, the small bedside lamp washing a tiny corner of the room in a pool of light. But there he was in that pool, sitting on her bed as if he hadn't a care in the world. Tom had not changed at all in the intervening months—his dark hair was still neatly cut to accentuate his even darker eyes, and he was still wearing the drab grey uniform that made him look unearthly pale. He was attempting to read in the minimal light, and it made her wonder if he'd been there for quite some time.

Excited, Hermione carefully shut her door and fairly  _bounced_  over to her bed, climbing up beside him. "You're back!"

Tom marked his page and slipped the book into a pocket. When he finally looked up to her, she couldn't quite read his expression—it seemed somewhere between apathetic and contrite. With a nonchalant shrug, he replied, "I try to stay away from the orphanage on my birthday."

"Oh," the little exclamation fell automatically from her lips as she processed the thought. He'd wanted to escape his orphanage, to find a familiar and friendly face on a day when no child should ever have to be alone. He had missed her, and that loneliness had driven him to seek her out! "Today's your—"

He cut her off, voice lilting enticingly, "I have something for you."

Hermione frowned bemusedly. "People don't usually give gifts on their own birthday, you know."

"Well," he drawled, a rare smile curling his lip invitingly as he shimmied to the floor, "I missed Christmas." From beneath the bed he produced a glass jar. It was narrow and tall, with a heavy lid that was clamped down tight by a metal buckle. What was really extraordinary though, was the little blue flame dancing inside it. "So here."

She took the jar hesitatingly, studying the curious wonder within. There was no way for the flame to breathe in that enclosed space, yet it burned bright, throwing an azure glow across her bedspread. Although, perhaps,  _burn_  was not the right word to use—the jar was no warmer than her own hands were making it. "Amazing!"

Tom's smile widened at the praise and he explained, "It's cold to the touch, it won't burn anything, and I don't think it can go out on its own." He climbed back onto the bed, sitting opposite her as he eagerly took in her expression. "It's been going for nearly a fortnight already."

Hermione looked up and studied him in turn. He was different, somehow. Before, he had always given off the impression of silent misery or ruthless disdain, but tonight he seemed… pleasant _, happy_ even. She couldn't help but wonder what had caused this change in behavior. But, as her eyes were drawn back to the caged fire, she thought that it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was back and sharing magical discoveries once more, that was really all that mattered. "You figured this out yourself?"

He cocked his head, smile nearly splitting his face, and murmured, "I'll show you how if you apologize."

Unlike levitation, she had not been able to replicate fire on her own no matter how hard she'd tried. His offer was tempting, but one thing nagged at her. "Apologize for what?" She hadn't done anything wrong.

His expression became guarded, lips turning down slightly as his dark eyes bored into her consideringly. Voice soft, he finally replied, "For not letting me help." And he sounded hurt about that, as if she'd refused some wonderful gift. But what other option had she been given? His violence had been terrifying.

"What you did wasn't helping, Tom," she said as gently as possible, wanting to heal this wound between them rather than reopen it. "You were using an unfair advantage. Besides, are  _you_  sorry?"

Tom frowned at that. "Should I be?"

His staunch refusal to take proper responsibility was frustrating. And yet… in light of all his other social inconsistencies, it made sense. She was beginning to see a clear pattern. He had isolated himself so deeply that he'd never learned how to properly behave. "People are supposed to care about those sort of things," Hermione offered dismally. This was a huge block between them. They were so close to being friends, but if they couldn't find a way to navigate through these rough waters then there was no point in reconciling. "You don't think twice about inflicting pain, and that isn't right."

"Look," he sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair, "it's different where I'm from. My whole life I've been taught over and over that you must strike quick and hard. There's a hierarchy at the orphanage, and if you don't hit first you'll end up under someone's thumb." His black eyes glittered, begging her to understand. "Your life is softer Hermione, but the principle is still the same."

She had never asked what his life at the orphanage was like. A part of her simply hadn't wanted to know, and his own silence on the matter was answer enough. Tom did not lead a happy life, and the terse way he was now describing his home situation painted a grim picture. He acted as if the world was against him; perhaps that was how it always seemed. And Hermione couldn't find it within herself to really chastise him about that view—the sudden mental image of Tom fighting just to survive was sobering. "Defending yourself is a different matter," she allowed quietly, never so keenly aware how different their lives were. "But taking revenge… that wasn't right."

Tom's eyes popped open incredulously as he pointed out, "I was  _defending_ you! That boy shouldn't have teased you and he needed to know it."

"And that would be a very sweet gesture," Hermione nodded, biting her lip, "if it weren't for the fact that you might have really hurt him."

His shoulders slumped a bit, almost defeated, but intellectually it seemed as if Tom would not let the argument go. "How else would he get the message?"

"How can you care so little?" She snapped loudly. The distance between them was staggering, insurmountable. And in the back of her mind, she kept wondering if she was asking too much of him—her classmates certainly exhibited some of the same cruelty he possessed. Perhaps she simply cared  _too much._

Tom stilled at her outburst, but he didn't seem upset. He gave the question due consideration before replying. "There's been nothing  _to_  care about in my life. But Hermione," he reached out and grasped her hand, gently cradling her fingers like she might shatter if he gripped too tightly, "if you want me to be sorry  _I will be_. I don't want you angry with me; you just have to understand that I'm not used to this."

Which, of course, she'd suspected. He didn't really seem the type to have any friends. However, he was reaching out to her—in his own way he was trying to fix what laid between them. That had to count for something, right? It wasn't even really his fault that he didn't understand how awful he'd been—his upbringing could not have been terribly informative on this matter. Yet she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Are you actually sorry though?"

"I won't lie to you, I feel worse for what was said than done," he replied baldly. "I'm  _not_  sorry for what I did; he deserved to be taught a lesson. But I  _am_  sorry that I snapped at you—I shouldn't have said that you didn't deserve your magic, that wasn't right." And he did seem genuinely apologetic that he'd hurt her feelings; she'd clearly come to mean  _something_  to him. Was that enough to set them back on track?

"Thank you," Hermione nodded, unable to quiet the little voice at the back of her mind, "but that isn't really what I want to hear, Tom. You have to learn to be more tolerant."

He seemed a little put out at her response, but he didn't give up. Lacing their fingers together, he explained, "We come from very different worlds, and I don't think I need to say more to justify my actions. He might not have raised a hand to you, but he still hurt you." Those hard black eyes that had so often been full of mockery suddenly softened, gazing at her sadly. "I don't understand why defending you against that was wrong. But for you, I will try."

"It's not defending me that I'm upset about, it's that you used magic on someone who couldn't have possibly protected himself against it," she told him, but her tone had lost some of its thunder. His words, though sparse, were unbearably sweet; he wanted her to like him and he was willing to change in order to ensure that she did. "I don't want to fight with you. If you promise to make an effort, then I'm sorry as well." Then, unable to stop herself, she blushed and offered him a shy smile, "No one's ever stood up for me before."

Tom seemed to like that idea, pride stealing over him ever so briefly. He quickly wiped the look away and gave her a cautious smile of his own. "Are we… back to normal?"

There was certainly a lot of work ahead of them, but she didn't think they were any worse off than they'd been before the fight. It was best to focus on the future now, so she rested her free hand on the jar and asked, "Will you teach me how you made that colored fire?"

His smile widened, satisfaction relaxing his tense posture. "Yes."

"Then I suppose we are," she nodded, beaming. "Happy birthday, by the way. How old are you turning?"

His joy dimmed slightly at the question—birthdays were apparently a sore subject with him—but he still answered, "Nine."

He was older than her now, and the occasion ought to be celebrated. He deserved a happy birthday as much as anyone else. "I wish I had a gift for you," Hermione fretted. "If I'd known… But then, I wasn't even sure you were ever coming back." She jumped off the bed, looking around the room for something that might suit.

But Tom quickly stopped her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Did you miss me while I was gone?" There was something strange about how he asked that question, but she couldn't place her finger on why. It was almost as if he'd purposefully threaded a shot of desperation into his voice to cover up a note of covetous desire.

Hermione cocked her head and frowned. "Of course, but—"

"No one's  _ever_  missed me before," he cut her off, "so that's probably the best present I've ever been given." And then he  _hugged_ her.

Tom had not exactly kept his distance over the course of their acquaintance—he'd often held her wrists or hands as they practiced magic—but he'd never been  _demonstrative_. This was the first truly overt sign of friendship between them and it left Hermione feeling awed. The tough little orphan boy who had held himself so tightly aloof was opening up for her, inviting her into his life. And she wanted the chance to be there for him, to provide the stability he'd obviously lacked; he deserved that much at least.

She hugged him back for all she was worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the quaintly sexist attitude of the 1930's! It's awful.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who left kudos, especially to Jayenn and FreyaFallen for commenting.
> 
> Please Comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	6. He Is Calculating

Chapter Six: He Is Calculating

_London, 1936_

Tom very carefully set down his copy of  _A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court_. This had to be the fourth time he'd read it, and it was no more helpful now than it had been the first go-around. He really wanted to throw the stupid thing across his room, but there was no sense in damaging his own belongings, no matter how frivolous they'd ultimately proven. There was a whole stash of time-travel books lined up under his bed now—all fiction and almost none of them concerned traveling  _forward_  through time—and not a single one had really furthered his knowledge. It was maddening. Either his situation was curiously unique, or he'd made a terrible oversight while researching book titles.

He had learned one thing though, and it was more just common sense than a revelation: time-travel had consequences. Problem was, he hadn't seen any changes in Hermione's world. Theoretically, altering a single event was enough to overwrite an entire future—Tom's actions in 1936 were  _utterly_  guided by his ability to skip forward in time, and yet there was no demonstrable change in the timeline. Did that mean that, from the perspective of the 1980's, he'd  _already_  traveled through time and his actions were, therefore, predetermined? Or had he simply not changed anything important enough to be noticeable? The circular logic made his head hurt, and it enraged him that he had not the means to study the idea any further.

The more he thought about it, the more sick it made Tom feel. Were his actions truly so insignificant? It shouldn't be possible to slip in and out of time without changing  _something_ , and yet he'd managed it. On another day, he might have decided that meant he was powerful, but the truth was that it made him feel like he was out of control. Nothing was falling in line with his hypothesis, and there was not even the vaguest hint that anything he'd done had generated any sort of reaction or consequence at all. Unless those were on the horizon? Rivers took the path of least resistance, did Time as well? Would it accrue little mistakes within the flow and simply ignore them until the pressure became great enough to reroute it? He liked that theory; it didn't explain much, but it was enough to take the edge off his impotency.

His impulse in the face of a problem like this was to ask after Hermione's opinion, and he wasn't sure if that flustered or infuriated him. The girl had proven to be his equal intellectually, and they'd spent many an afternoon riddling out problems together. Ethically, however… Hermione was overburdened by a sense of moral obligation, she weighed every decision against societal convention. More often than not, he'd had to bite his tongue and agree with her so as not to start an argument, but once or twice he'd gotten her to side with him. However, he somehow knew that time-travel would be one of those issues they'd be strictly divided over.

Tom still had not told her that he was from the past and he didn't intend to until a point when he was certain she would not attempt to send him away. Then again, for all her straight-laced ways Hermione was devilishly curious, sometimes even to the point of self-endangerment. It was possible that she would be more intrigued than angry, and with her help he would be able to look through books and theories that had not yet been printed in his own time. Fabulous reward, but he wasn't sure if the risk was really worth it—despite her easy acquiescence on his birthday, it had taken  _weeks_  to repair their relationship, to get her to  _trust_  him once more—and if he alienated her now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to win her back again.

The traveling had gotten harder since their reconciliation; or, rather, the void had gotten longer. He counted it up to five seconds now. In another month it might be so high as six. That certainly didn't bode well—if the pattern held, how long would the void stretch before him in a year or two? The problem was that the "pattern" was inconsistent: the void wasn't  _steadily_  gaining time so much as leaping forward at erratic intervals. Something deep down told him that it  _wasn't really_  erratic, but he had yet to make the appropriate connection. Perhaps, if he wrote it all down, was able to  _see_  the shape of his problem, he might be able to think of a way to solve it.

Nothing he'd done so far had soothed that gossamer blankness, and he still wished in some capacity that he could simply pull Hermione through with him and be done with it—strange to think that the girl meant more to him than access to her time period. Each trip was like a petite sample of death, the yawning emptiness waiting to consume him; there were no words for how deeply he hated it, but it was a sacrifice he was prepared to make, time and again, for the time being. Much as he hated to admit it, he might lose his nerve on the day that the abyss claimed him for more than a minute. But at this rate, that day was years off and who knew how he might feel then?

* * *

_The Countryside, 1988_

Winter and spring passed in a blur for Hermione, summer creeping upon her with its sweet heat and lazy-dreamy afternoons. The end of the school year was always marked by a big trip—this year was to a manor-museum where they were meant to be learning about history and conservation efforts, but were mostly just getting lost and playing around on the manicured lawns. The manor itself was a sprawling affair, but was nothing compared to the grounds, which not only had its own lake but an island that had been outfitted with grecian-style ruins. It was all terribly artificial, but she still had fun exploring them with Tom.

They were perfectly alone at this point, her classmates giving them a rather large berth. There were a few stares and pointing fingers from the distance—curiosity ran high about the mysterious boy who often accompanied Hermione—but no one seemed able to work up the courage to approach. Fine by her, in all honesty; isolation meant they could speak freely.

In the spirit of that sentiment, she pondered aloud, "Do you ever think…"

Tom ducked behind a cracked column and hummed questioningly.

"I mean," she slipped around to face him, "do you ever wonder if there are  _others_ out there? People like us, with magic?"

His brows rose in bemusement, but there was a touch of disdain in his voice when he replied, "If there are, they've kept themselves too well hidden."

Hermione laughed, quite used to his moody petulance, though it had become far less apparent of late. "You resent them!"

" _If_  they exist—and I am willing to concede that it  _is_ a possibility, so stop grinning at me—I resent not being informed." Which was a fair enough point. However, this was clearly an issue he'd dedicated some thought to, because he seemed unable to stop himself from expounding further. " _Nine years_  and no one could find a spare second to tell me  _why_  I'm different? It's indecent. Not to mention the missed learning opportunities—imagine what someone three times our age might be able to do!" He turned away in a snit, darkly eyeing the mausoleum-like temple ahead of them. "But we'll never know, Hermione, because if these  _others_ do exist, they don't seem to want anything to do with us."

"Things change, you know," she gently reassured, slipping her hand into his. Tom was still very sparing about contact, but it did seem to soothe him. "Just because that's the way it is now doesn't mean that's the way it's always going to be."

He studied her for a long moment, black eyes unreadable. "What's brought all this on?" He asked quietly. "Have you met someone?"

"No, not really, but there was this man…" Hermione shook her head and trailed off. At his prompting to explain further, she tried again, "I was out shopping with mum when I saw him, and at first I thought he must be a foreigner because he was dressed a little strange and seemed to be having trouble with his money. He had just bought a book and was looking around a bit shiftily, that's why he caught my eye. Then—Tom, look at me—once he decided the coast was clear, I saw him put that massive tome into a pocket that couldn't have been any bigger than this!" She held out her open palm, internally marveling anew at what she'd seen. That book had been as big as a dictionary, yet it had fit into a space a fraction of its size. "And he caught me looking, you know; he stared at me real hard for a moment, then he smiled wide, threw me a wink, and disappeared into the crowd."

Tom did not seem at all impressed, but then he hadn't been there to witness it. "Could have been a parlour trick," he shrugged. "Maybe he knew you were looking, so he decided to entertain the little girl."

"Maybe," Hermione admitted, "but I'd like to think it was real magic."

He laughed at that, and the sound sent a shiver through her. For such a tightly controlled and precise person, his laughter was always a little unrestrained, a bit wild; it didn't quite seem to fit him, yet it was a pleasant enough sound. "Of course you would," he replied after quieting his mirth. "You don't want to concede to the possibility that we might truly be alone—it's depressing."

She looked out toward the lake, gaze raking over the gently lapping waves as she pondered his words. No matter what he said, she knew it could not just be the two of them; it was a simple matter of probability. Otherwise, why  _just_ them? Why  _both_ in London? There had to more, or at least a reason as to why it had happened at all, and she rather thought he felt the same way as well. Curious, she pressed, "So  _do_  you think there are others?"

Tom smiled and squeezed her fingers playfully. "I shan't answer either way," he teased lightly. "But I will tell you this: if they do exist, they shall have to earn my forgiveness."

Hermione shook her head in good-natured exasperation. Only he would consider it a direct affront that he'd not received an engraved invitation to learn about the hows and whys of magic! "You take everything so personally."

"You're not the one living in an orphanage, Hermione," he reminded her, steering them around an artfully crumbling wall. "It's easy for you to forgive because you have an overabundance of hope. For me, hope is a commodity and I have precious little of it. So, yeah," he shrugged casually, "maybe I  _am_ taking it a bit personally, but from where I'm standing it does all seem rather cruel."

It really did, now that she came to think of it. If there  _was_ some sort of secret society of magicians, why had they left Tom to be raised in an orphanage? What did they gain by not telling him anything about his heritage—if, indeed, heritage was even the right word. Or did they not even know about the children? Hermione had so many questions that desperately needed answers, but there was no one to ask.

"I'm just as much in the dark as you are, you know," she reminded him, unable to quiet the endless stream of problems now that she'd dug them up. "Yes, I have parents, but I can't stop thinking about the  _magic_. I mean, it's clearly not an inherited trait, or my parents would have it. Or  _is_  it an inherited trait, and they're not really my parents at all? What if I'm an orphan too, and no one has ever bothered to tell me?"

He drew her to a stop, offering her a lopsided smile. "You look too much like your mother not to be hers," he said, taking a seat at the steps of the faux temple. "You  _know_  that."

* * *

Hermione sat down next to him, close in a way no one else had ever dared to get. Were they at the orphanage, she would have been regarded as a daredevil for her casual ease in his presence. He was, at once, both unsettled and entranced by her proximity. A part of him simply did not like to be touched unless he was initiating the contact, but another part of him reveled in her gentle reassurances. With every light brush of her fingers, ever friendly bump of her shoulders, he could  _feel_  her magic—feel the way it snaked, unseen, through the air around them, feel the way it hummed under her skin like an electric current—and it was soothing to him.

They sat in a companionable silence, looking out over the phoney ruins, rolling their eyes together as her classmates bleated and gamboled like sheep. He could tell there was a statement perched just behind her lips though, and it wasn't long before she allowed it to spill out, "Mum wants to meet you, by the way. Well, they  _both_  do."

Tom felt himself tensing. "You told your parents about me?" He wasn't sure he liked the idea that he'd been reduced to a topic of conversation. Then again, it said something about how close they'd gotten if Hermione could not stop herself from mentioning him to others.

"No," she was quick to reassure, "but between my moping when you were gone and then following excitement upon your return, they rather seemed to come to the appropriate conclusion themselves."

He pondered the scenario for a moment. It would not be unwise to ingratiate himself to the rest of the Grangers, but it wouldn't necessarily benefit him either. He was not interested in her parents; from the few photographs he'd seen of them, he'd concluded that they were decent enough people but unequivocally boring, and certainly  _not_   _magic_  as their daughter was. Gaining favour with the elder Grangers could potentially further his campaign with Hermione, but that also had the potential to backfire in ways he would be unable to correct. Her parents held sway over her, a certain control that would always trump his own machinations while face to face. He liked Hermione isolated, liked being her sole focus during their time together; he did not want to share that, particularly not with family members that she would be naturally inclined to gravitate toward in the first place. All in all, he reasoned that it would only be far more trouble than it was truly worth. But how to spin that to Hermione when she was watching him with those eager, doe eyes?

Quietly, voice pitched low and hesitant for best effect, he replied, "I'm not sure if I'd like that."

She frowned, clearly disappointed, but latched onto his tone just as he'd hoped she would. As annoying as he often found it, her adherence to societal conventions did occasionally benefit him. "You don't have to," she said carefully, always tiptoeing around the fact that he was an orphan unless he brought it up first, "if it would make you uncomfortable. It's just, if you met them, we wouldn't have to hide around the house anymore."

It would change the entire dynamic of their visits; their explorations into the nature of magic would be relegated to the realm of play-dates and other such mundane drivel. Tom found the very idea intolerable, if not degrading. "No," he pointed out with a level headedness he did not feel, "but you would have to start asking for permission, and we would  _still_  have to hide the magic." A counterargument was brewing in her eyes, so he decided to head her off. Affecting a certain nervous sheepishness, he continued, "Anyway, it's not a good idea—I'm not really supposed to be out of the orphanage to begin with, let alone visiting people on the other side of London. What if they get curious and try to contact the Matron? It would be a disaster." Indeed, they'd think him insane for offering up the name of a woman who was, in all probability, long since dead.

Hermione sighed in defeat and slumped against him. "Can I at least tell them about you? Not the magic, obviously."

"Obviously," Tom rolled his eyes with a quiet laugh.

"I could just tell them that you're from school," she pressed, "that we talk about books and things. It's not so far from the truth, really."

"Why bother?" It struck him then that her dilemma was curiously one-sided. He had no one in his life that he wished to share knowledge of her with; and even if he had, he likely wouldn't. Tom enjoyed the secrecy of it: the private, magical friend that no one else knew about. It gave him a certain thrill to think of her when others dared to accuse him of being friendless—perhaps not as much thrill as it would be to prove them wrong, but the nature of his travel prevented that possibility.

Hermione seemed to be following along a similar line of thought. "Other people don't keep quiet about their friends, it isn't fair that I should have to!" She straightened from her slump and turned to look him in the eye, imploring. "Why all the secrecy?"

It took a moment for him to realize what he was seeing, but once he did he could not prevent himself from smiling. "You want to show me off," he accused teasingly. "Are you proud of me, Hermione? Want to trot me out in front of everyone you know to prove that people like us  _can_  have friends?"

Her eyes narrowed and she fluffed up defensively at the false mockery in his tone. She clearly didn't appreciate his playfulness in that moment. "You're clever and determined; you love learning new things just the same as I do," she listed off quietly, a touch desperately. "Why  _shouldn't_  I get to prove to everyone that it's  _not_  just me? That I'm  _not_  a freak?"

He sobered instantly at those words, voice falling deathly gentle as he asked, "Did somebody call you that?"

Her eyes nervously shifted away. "No," she answered, but it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"You're lying. I hate it when you do that," Tom replied carefully. He wanted to snap and shout; he absolutely despised it when people attempted to deceive him, but he could not risk her anger just now. Instead, he swallowed his natural impulse and offered her a chiding, "You aren't very good at it, you know."

Hermione seemed not the least bit apologetic. "I don't need you avenging my honour, Tom," she told him darkly. "We've talked about this."

"It was that Smythe brat again, wasn't it?" He asked knowingly, spotting the familiar blond mop of hair in the distance. It chafed that she still would not concede his right to defend her—that she would eschew protection in favour of wasted diplomacy—but for now, he had no choice other than to respect her decision. He couldn't afford to drive her away, and this was still a sore point between them. In time, he felt he would be able to refute her argument, or perhaps simply seize control, but in this moment their situation was still too volatile.

"Please," she pressed, slipping her hand into his, "just leave it be."

He swallowed his anger, forcing an amiable smile to his lips. "You are too sweet for your own good," he announced lightly, although in the privacy of his own thoughts it was more of an accusation. "He doesn't deserve your mercy."

She bit her lip, but couldn't seem to stop picking at the argument. "Tom—"

"No," he cut her off, squeezing her hand reassuringly, "this is me leaving it alone. I'll not say a word." He mimed locking his lips sealed for her benefit, a silly gesture he knew she enjoyed.

Unfortunately, Hermione had picked up on his habit of soothing through omission—carefully phrased non-promises that allowed him to keep his word while still doing as he pleased. " _Or do anything,_ " she amended firmly. He wasn't sure if her astute observation on this front delighted or enraged him.

"Well, aren't you clever," he sang lightheartedly. "Fine," he acquiesced, wrapping an arm around her so as to use the soothing press of her magic to calm himself, "I won't do anything, even though he  _absolutely_  deserves it. You know," Tom shook her gently, pressing her more firmly into his side, "you're not doing him any favours—bullies who don't get stood up to  _stay_  bullies."

"Better than you stooping down to his level," she argued stoutly.

Her words irritated him, but the way she ever so slightly burrowed into his warmth made up for it, so he decided to continue teasing her instead of quarreling. "Protecting my virtue?"

Thankfully, she accepted the shift in tone and laughed. "Safeguarding your honour," she nodded in a mockingly serious voice.

"You are a strange girl, Hermione Granger," he smiled at her. And it was true—she was unlike any girl he'd ever met. She was too independent, too untamed to even compare to the boring hags at the orphanage.

His proclamation seemed to strike the wrong note with her, however. She looked nervous as she quietly asked, "Am I?"

Tom studied her for a brief instant, calculating. Independent or not, she was always so desperate to prove herself worthy that this moment, this very invitation from her own lips, provided the perfect opportunity to twist himself even deeper into her life. "You're clever and you want to fit in," he answered seriously, "but you aren't willing to make changes to do so even though you know that would help—too much pride. You are right though, people should have to take you on your own terms or not at all. Although that attitude does throw a bit of a wrench into making friends, doesn't it?"  _I see you_ , he told her underneath all the pretty words,  _I see you in ways no one else ever will_. "And for all your book-smarts, you're a bit wild around the edges, you know—the hair, the clothes, the temper that you keep buried under all your insecurities, to say nothing of the magic. But you know what, Hermione?" He pressed her closer before her embarrassment could drive her to wiggle away, laid his head atop her own and whispered, "I rather find that I  _like_  strange."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: They would be so cute together if Tom weren't so eternally creepy.
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this chapter, folks! Late fall into early winter (in other words, the holiday season) is always a bit hectic; never enough time to write, it seems. And with Thanksgiving exactly one week away, I'll go ahead and guess that the next chapter may take a few extra days to type out (although hopefully not as long as this one did, especially since I'm so excited about the next chapter).
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to parthenoi, rammy (ramofpride), adlyb, and katsheswims for commenting!
> 
> Please Comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	7. He Is A Wizard

Chapter Seven: He Is A Wizard

_The Seaside, 1937_

Tom wanted to drag his feet across the beach, but it seemed a ridiculously petulant gesture. He had appearances to maintain among the other orphans after all, so he refrained. But he _wanted_ to.

This whole trip was working his every last nerve, as these summer trips always did. In theory, they were an excellent idea—give everyone the opportunity to get out of London, get some fresh air. In practice, however, it was idiocy—dozens of angry, city-dwelling orphans crammed together and then released upon the foreign reality of the wilderness. It was a recipe for disaster. Tempers ran high on the best of days, adding in a new environment was akin to flicking matches at a powder-keg. Before the end of the day, there would be shouting and tears and probably a few injuries.

Had Hermione been there, Tom might have felt differently about the whole thing. The beach was fascinating in its own way—cold waters bursting with life, tide pools creating their own little worlds, a craggy cliffside waiting to be explored—they might have had a lot of fun together in a place like this. But she _wasn't_ there, he reflected bitterly. _Two years_ he'd known her, _two years_ he'd been slipping in and out of the future and he still wasn't powerful enough to bring her with him. His ability to travel had gotten exponentially smoother and easier since his eight-year-old self had first done it, but in no other way had the nature of his power increased or changed. It rankled him, particularly since it felt overwhelmingly like failure. He clearly did not fully understand this power if he could not control it as he wished, and there was no way for him to further his control. Why could he not affect the girl when the girl was the whole reason he was traveling in the first place? Two years of passive observation and small experiments had yielded few useful results; in a situation like this he might have sought outside help, but there were no books to consult and no teachers to ask.

It was a strange endgame, if he really thought about it. Bringing Hermione to his time had the potential to backfire in a big way. The orphanage would be like hell for her, he had no doubt; not to mention that the life she might lead in her own time would be decidedly more exciting and liberated than what she would be treated to in the past. The 1930's and coming 40's could very well crush the spirit right out of her. He couldn't stop himself from wanting her there, though; the idea of having unimpeded access to her, of being able to fill _every_ hour of _every_ day with their magic made him feverish with the desire to secure that reality at any cost. It made him fume that he could not conceive of a way to achieve this goal—he was at a dead end for now.

Which meant his only course of action, as far as Hermione was concerned, was simply to visit as often as he could. And the fact that she had restrictions on her time only seemed to spite him further. He had to share her, and between school lessons and family obligations Tom rather felt that he'd drawn the short straw. She was on holiday right now—someplace exotic and interesting that he'd never be able to travel to on his own—and there was no way to get to her without drawing the unwanted attention of her parents. Tom couldn't help but resent the elder Grangers and how deeply they monopolized their daughter's time. They provided an excellent life for her—comfortable, secure, if a bit dull—and he knew he had not the means to do that himself. However, he was convinced that the price was not truly worth it—enduring their constant presence when she could be surrounded by magic instead seemed like a poor trade off. A part of him realized he was operating under the uniquely biased view of someone without any family connections, but that did nothing to diminish his belligerent thoughts.

His temper was a living thing, building inside him, stoking his magic, searching for an outlet. What had always been an explosive and fierce disposition had only gotten worse as he gained strength from his magic. But Tom prided himself on his control, and he refused to slip up here where Mrs. Cole could so easily see if something unusual happened. He grit his teeth, choking his anger back, bitterly aware that it was thoughtlessly easier to do this when Hermione was around. He needed something to distract himself from thoughts of her, something he might not have been able to indulge in had she been there.

Turning, Tom let his dark eyes scan the cliffside, brightening when he noticed the opening to a cave. There might be someone to talk to in there, a snake or two to whisper secrets with. He regarded his ability to talk to snakes as one of his most interesting and impressive powers, yet in all the time he'd known her he'd never mentioned it to Hermione. Something had stayed his tongue, some peculiar awareness, much like the one that had led him to give her a false name and still refused to tell her he was visiting from fifty odd years in the past.

Excited now, he picked his way across the beach. The cave would take a little bit of climbing to reach, as it was part way up the craggy cliffside. High tide wouldn't touch it, but Tom suspected that a fierce storm could potentially flood the place. Panting with exertion, he slipped into the waiting darkness, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. Unlike the rocks along the beach, the stones in here were polished smooth like glass, but they had the weight and fractal beauty of crystal. He'd been right though, the deeper he went into the cave the more flooding he encountered—damp and cool, it wasn't exactly an ideal place for snakes.

Yet not more than a dozen steps after making that assessment, find a snake he did. It was a pale grey colour with a black zigzag pattern stretching down its back and, though it was difficult to tell while it was coiled in upon itself, he suspected that the lovely thing was just about as long as he himself was tall. No mean feat, considering that he generally towered over his peers. Despite their environment, Tom was sure this was an adder; he'd never seen one in person before. They tended to avoid the city, unlike grass snakes who confusedly slithered in and often needed rescuing.

Somehow, serpents always appeared to know he could speak to them and they were drawn to him because of it; grass snakes in particular seemed increasingly susceptible to the call. Although, once he'd met an escaped python that had desperately wanted to stay with him—he'd considered it for a few moments, thrilling at the rush of power it would give him over the other orphans, but had eventually sent the snake on its way. Keeping the sweet serpent ultimately wouldn't have been worth the trouble and attention that it would draw. One day though, when he was older…

The adder lifted its blunt head and regarded him carefully. Hissing quietly, it asked, " _Snake-Speaker?"_

Tom nodded, " _Yes."_ He wasn't sure what gave him away. People certainly couldn't guess that he had this ability, and yet snakes just knew. Why? Not that he was complaining—he loved the scaly little beasts—but it was strange.

" _What are you doing here?"_ The adder uncoiled itself lazily and bridged the gap between them, scenting the air cautiously.

" _I could ask you the same,"_ Tom replied pointedly. " _Aren't adders supposed to favour woodlands?"_

" _And mountains,"_ it countered. It was strangely cognizant for a common snake—they usually spoke more in sentiments than actual phrases and had little regard for the human structured ebb and flow of conversation.

He smiled, though he wasn't sure how well the gesture translated to a creature that mostly relied upon its sense of smell in order to see. " _This isn't a mountain."_

" _No,"_ the serpent conceded agreeably, rising up to scent his hand, " _but the cave is strong."_

" _Strong?"_ Tom stroked the adder's flat head and puzzled at that statement. Snakes had their own unique worldview and it deeply informed their language. Strong was strange choice of word, though—territories were generally assessed for their access to sunlight and prey, and were usually described as either lively or barren. Strong was a word that snakes sometimes used in regard to themselves, but never places. How could a cave—which was arguably the worst possible environment for the adder before him—be strong?

" _There's power here, old power."_ The adder hissed out a laugh. " _It leaks through the crystals, makes me more than just a snake. Come, I will show you."_ And without waiting for a response, he slithered off into the darkness.

Tom followed as best he could, avoiding stagnant puddles as his eyes began to fail him in the deeper recesses where the sun could not reach. Yet just as he was about to command the adder to slow down, he began to perceive a faint glow. They crested a small incline and stood at the lip of a plateau, taking in the sight laid before them. The crystals there pulsed with a sickly yellow light, illuminating a placid lake and the tiny island at its center. The water seemed quite deep as far as he could tell, probably fed by an underground river rather than being the result of successive floodings. There was a hot metallic tang in the air, like lightning, and he could feel his magic respond to it. Yet it was different than his own, or even Hermione's—more concentrated somehow, more disciplined. Someone else with magic had stood here and done something so great that it had left traces behind.

" _There's a story here,"_ he guessed, soaking in the feel of the atmosphere, allowing it to coax his own magic closer to the surface. " _What is this place?"_

The adder coiled itself and gazed longingly at the little island. " _Legend says…"_

Bemused, Tom couldn't stop himself from interrupting, " _Snakes have legends?"_

The adder made an indulgent sound, not quite a laugh, and admitted, " _Perhaps not, but I am more than a snake now, and the cave speaks to me."_ It gave him a pointed look, almost impatient, before starting again, " _Legend says that long ago, years beyond counting for the snakes, an Evil Man came here. He was a weak man but he had a powerful object, and he used that thing on the crystals in order to make himself strong."_

In the heavy, rich air of the cave, Tom almost felt as if he could see the story unfolding before his very eyes. An ugly man, gnarled and gaunt, stood upon the island, wielding an unassuming bit of polished white wood. But that little piece of wood was stronger than he, and it amplified his power a thousand fold, bouncing off the crystals as he strengthened his magical core. When he was finished, a powerful man stood in his place—still ugly, still twisted, but stronger than he'd ever been. He was still no match for the object in his hand though, it radiated magic so intensely that the very crystals around them had become suffused with it.

" _His power lingers still, pulsing from the very cave itself now."_ The adder jerked its narrow head, indicating the tiny landmass as it told him, " _If you rest on that island in the middle of the lake, it will change you. Make you more."_

Tom scoffed at his little friend. " _I'm already more."_

But the snake merely scoffed back, " _You think you are greater than the Evil Man?"_

In fact, he did. Even without the benefit of whatever training the Evil Man had received, Tom _knew_ he was simply _better_ —smarter, more basely talented, and he was still young yet. " _You said it yourself,"_ he pointed out, " _the man was weak—it was the object that was strong. I am already powerful, and I do not require assistance to become even more so."_ Not like that, anyway; not if he had to compete in order to prove that it was his own might and will that made him powerful rather than some preternatural artefact.

" _You are prideful, Snake-Speaker,"_ the adder accused. " _Accepting help is sometimes a sign of cunning rather than weakness."_

Tom was about to reply that it wasn't really the help itself he hated so much as the implication—that he was incapable of doing it on his own, or that he would have to debase himself before someone with greater authority. He would have to be truly desperate to resort to such measures. The sentiment never had the chance to departed his lips, however.

Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson had stumbled their way up to the little plateau and were both staring at Tom incredulously. Dennis recovered first, laughing nastily as he exclaimed, "I knew you were a _freak_ , Riddle, but this really takes it. Are you _talking_ to that snake?"

"Mental," Amy muttered quietly, for once not holding her tongue in his presence. "Absolutely _barking_ mad."

"What does it tell you? Eh?" Dennis threw out an elbow, trying to rib him as he teased. "Hisses in your ear and tells you to strangle us all? Wait until Mrs. Cole hears this," he crowed delightedly. "Maybe she'll finally have you carted off to an asylum, where you belong."

Tom regarded them both for a second. He'd lost face here—he'd very quickly gone from being the most dangerous person at Wool's to a harmless looney in their eyes. That wouldn't do at all; he would have to remind them why it was unwise to speak so freely in his presence. "You've got it the wrong way 'round," he told Dennis calmly.

Thick as he was, even Dennis knew trouble when he heard it. He stiffened, taking an involuntary step back, as if only just realizing who he'd been attempting to bully. "What?"

"The snake doesn't command me, I command it." He hissed a quiet direction to the adder and, bless it, it immediately snapped to attention. The serpent uncoiled itself and slithered threateningly close to the two other orphans. "Do you know what this lovely create is?" Tom asked conversationally. "It's an adder—the only native venomous snake in all of England. And right now, the only thing standing between you and its deadly bite is my good humour, which you've quite spoiled."

The adder bared its teeth, making an exaggerated lunge. It was not in its nature to attack humans unless thoroughly provoked, but it seemed to have sensed Tom's shift in mood. It play-acted at the whole thing, attempting to make it look good even though the snake clearly had no intention of biting anyone unless ordered to.

Amy squealed and threw herself away from the snake, nodding frantically when Dennis barked out a terrified, "No, please!"

"Why? Give me a reason," Tom replied evenly. They both attempted to scramble away, but with his magic provoked so close to the surface by the unnatural atmosphere of the cave, Tom almost thoughtlessly held them in place.

Trapped by invisible snares, the pair became frantic. Amy had already dissolved into tears, yet it was her voice that bit out threateningly, "Mrs. Cole will notice, and don't think she'll brush it aside like she did the rabbit! This is _murder_ , and she'll know it was your fault even if it's the snake that does it."

"Do you think I'm frightened of her?" Tom laughed at the very idea—Mrs. Cole was about as dangerous to him as a wet blanket. "If I'm capable of killing the two of you right here, what makes you think I couldn't do the same to her?" Practicality stayed his hand in that matter, but there was no need for either of them to know that.

Dennis blubbered as he attempted to dodge the snake once more, making sounds like a dying cat as he screeched, " _Riddle, please!"_

The thrill of the power he held over them—the very idea that their lives were held so securely in his hands, that he alone would decide _right now_ whether it all ended here for them—left him feeling strangely magnanimous. He could kill them, he _wanted_ to kill them, but their terror was amusing, and explaining away their deaths—though not difficult—would be troublesome. "Tell you what," he purred, soothing if not for the hint of underlying malice, "I'll spare you, if only so that the poor snake doesn't have to dirty itself with your filthy blood." A smile split his face, crooked and hungry, as he demanded, "But first you have to beg."

They pleaded raggedly around ugly sobs, not so dissimilar to the sounds Billy Stubbs had once made, if a bit more desperate. Still, it didn't quite seem enough.

Taunting, he asked them, "Is that the best you can do? It's a very poor effort—you're fighting for your lives here." He instructed the adder how to rear like a cobra—not a natural motion for the English-bred serpent—and though it was understated since the adder had no hood to flare, it still had the desired effect. The orphans' wailing reached a fevered pitch—a frenzied sound of terror and desperation. "That's better," Tom nodded patronizingly. He waved the snake subtly back as he approached Amy and Dennis, drawing too close, invading their space as he threatened, "Just remember: I can talk to _any_ snake, _anywhere_. If Mrs. Cole hears so much as a shaky _whisper_ of what happened today, I will send them after you. And there are zoos in London. So unless you want to wake up to a boa constrictor swallowing you whole, _eating you alive_ , I suggest you keep your lips shut. _Understood?"_

The two nodded mindlessly, fleeing as soon as their invisible bonds released them.

Tom watched them go with a warm sense of accomplishment. Once they were out of sight, he turned back to the adder and hissed, " _Thanks for that."_

The serpent seemed thoroughly amused by the little act they'd just put on, though it readily admitted, " _I probably couldn't have taken them both, you realize."_

" _I know,"_ he shrugged, breathing deeply of the rich air. " _But sometimes fear goes a lot further than actual strength."_

* * *

_London, 1990_

Hermione openly stared at the woman sitting in their kitchen. She knew she was being rude, but she simply couldn't stop herself. The woman was a commanding figure, stern-looking, though not unkind; she wore a green tartan dress, which was either unfashionable or simply outdated, and few adornments aside from her square-framed glasses. Her bearing was one of unmistakable authority, and that quality was likely the only reason the Grangers had let her into their home _after_ she'd introduced herself as a _witch_.

In fact, the woman wasn't just a witch, she was also a professor at a school—for Witchcraft and Wizardry!—and was inviting Hermione to enroll. The conversation had gotten a bit fuzzy after that as the elder Grangers asked all sorts of probing and increasingly skeptical questions. For her part, Hermione was mostly just imagining how Tom would react to this news; she had no doubt that he would be invited as well, perhaps someone was even speaking to him right now. They could go to school _together_ , and learn about this curious talent that they had both struggled to control!

Her father's voice broke through her elated thoughts, reminding her that her parents still had to be convinced. "What did you say your name was, again?"

To her credit, the woman was patient. "Professor Minerva McGonagall," she replied evenly, despite the fact that this had to be the third time she'd been obliged to introduce herself in less than ten minutes.

Her father nodded, carrying on, "And this school—"

"Is a well known and respected establishment that caters to students who share Hermione's particular attributes." Professor McGonagall was very careful and deliberate with her words. At a guess, Hermione would have bet that this wasn't anywhere close to the first time the older woman had had to soothe confused parents.

Mr. Granger, however, was a rational man and could not let the obvious strangeness go. "That attribute being magic," he countered with a disbelieving frown.

The professor sighed, and in her defense she really didn't have a lot to work with. "I know it is a lot to take in for muggles—which is to say that your family has no direct history of witchcraft or wizardry. However—"

Hermione knew her parents well, though. Short of some sort of indication on her part or a practical demonstration, no amount of words would convince them. Bearing that in mind, she interrupted the professor, loudly declaring, "I believe you."

Professor McGonagall gave her a small smile, a knowing look in her eyes as she guessed at the truth of the matter. "Accidental flares of magic are not uncommon among untrained adolescents," she explained, "particularly if emotions are running high."

And Hermione, always one to impress, couldn't stop herself from saying, "It's not always accidental. I've gotten quite good at making things move whenever I want them to." She concentrated on the table's centerpiece, easily using her magic to slide it from one side of the table and back again. "See?"

The professor's smile froze, and though she hid it well her surprise was still apparent. "Well done," she praised in a strange tone. "Although I should warn you that until you are of age, using magic outside of the school and its grounds is not only prohibited but punishable."

Hermione felt her own smile falter. "Oh." Perhaps it was a good thing she hadn't decided to summon fire, then.

"You will not be held accountable for what you've already done," McGonagall assured her quickly "seeing as you did not know—at your age, wandless magic is not generally considered controllable—and there is always a bit of a grace period before you start your first year. However, once you do begin your lessons, you will be monitored for magical activity whenever you are not at Hogwarts or its neighboring village."

"Grace period?" She latched onto that phrase, knowing for a fact that in their excitement she and Tom would likely not be able to stop themselves from trying something. "So I can still experiment _before_ term begins?" Her parents made twins sounds of surprise, reminding her of their presence, but Hermione studiously avoided looking at them. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know what their reaction to her… _unique talent_ was.

"It is typically allowable as most students are not capable of doing more than producing sparks without any schooling." Professor McGonagall gave her an assessing look, glancing briefly at the centerpiece before she added, "However, in your case, I would recommend sticking to smaller spells and only practicing in absolute privacy."

It was wonderful to be understood and encouraged. The professor genuinely seemed to want her to start studying at the first opportunity. However, something about the way she'd phrased her caveat gave Hermione pause— _in her case_. Could other witches and wizards her age not do as she had? Tom outstripped her in terms of control, so she had simply assumed that their capabilities were normal. Was that not the case? Would she be considered different even among an _entire society_ of people who were different? _Tom will be with you though_ , her thoughts soothed; so different, perhaps, but not alone.

Her father pulled himself together first, all seriousness as he asked, "What sort of education can this institute supply?" And Hermione didn't think she'd ever loved him more than in that moment—he was willing to _believe_ , to take this strange and somewhat frightening possibility seriously because he knew she wanted to attend.

"Hogwarts is widely considered the most prestigious school in Europe, if not the world," Professor McGonagall assured him. "Hermione will receive the dedicated instruction of our diverse and deeply skilled staff, and be provided with the tools and knowledge necessary to understand, control, and nurture her talents, both magical and otherwise."

"And there are career opportunities after that," he pressed, so close to acceptance. "It wouldn't set her apart or behind to go to Hogwarts as opposed to any of the other, normal schools that have reached out?" Given her grades, Hermione knew that she had a lot of options, and her parents had been setting aside a good amount of money in the hopes of sending her to a first-rate school.

"There is a whole _world_ of magic that has been hidden from your eyes, and the opportunities our society could afford your daughter, especially with the benefit of a Hogwarts education, are innumerable," the professor nodded. "Given her aptitude and educational career so far, we feel that Hermione will be an excellent fit for both our school and culture." Perhaps sensing that the conversation was finally reaching a tipping point, she further explained, "And her choices post-graduation are not so different as you imagine—she could still follow paths into politics, medicine, philosophy, literature, mathematics, not to mention the entrepreneurial opportunities. Magic simply adds an extra dimension to these fields. If anything, she will be greater prepared for the future."

Her father's resistance was on its last legs. "And even if she went to a normal— _muggle?_ —school…?"

"She would remain different," McGonagall told him bluntly. "Even untrained, her magic would always be a part of her. In fact, I daresay that if _left untrained_ it is likely your daughter could unintentionally become a danger to herself and others."

For the first time since the whole fiasco had begun, her mother finally addressed her. "Hermione," she crouched down to look her daughter in the eye, smoothing her wild hair back as she said, "it's your future, darling. What do _you_ want?"

There was no question in her mind. "I want to learn magic," she replied. "Really learn it, with books and proper teachers."

"She will be among children facing the exact same difficulties as herself," McGonagall assured them, "surrounded by peers capable of understanding her for perhaps the first time in her young life."

And as far as anyone in that room was concerned, the matter was settled. Come the new term, Hermione would be attending Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

_London, 1938_

Tom stared at his own hands as if he'd never seen them before, hyper-aware of the older man in the room watching him but unable to stop his reaction. Though the news did not come as a particular surprise, some part of him was still shocked to hear it.

He _was_ different.

He _was_ special.

He was a _wizard_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fun fact—The Evil Man from the cave was in truth Emeric the Evil, and the white bit of wood Tom was so ambivalent toward was likely the Elder Wand.
> 
> I kind of hate skipping forward through the narrative like this, but we've had six chapters now to get to know Hermione and become terrified by Tom's psyche; it felt like time to move on to the Hogwarts portion of the story. As a few of you have noticed, I've flubbed Hermione's timeline just a teensy little bit—I don't think it detracts from the story at large enough to go back and change all the dates and ages, so I'd be ever so grateful if you would all be obliging enough to ignore the fact that she's not yet 11 by the time she gets her Letter. Oops. I swear, I charted the whole thing out; I don't know how I still messed up.
> 
> Again guys, very sorry for the delay on this—like I said last chapter, November and December are tough months for me to find the time to write. I've been humbled by the sheer enthusiasm of the response this story has been getting, so I'm hoping to go back to my old release schedule after the New Year (so about one new chapter every week, give or take a few days). I can't thank everyone enough, both for the level of excitement and your patience (or impatience as the case may be; sometimes that eleventh hour review/PM is what really kicks me into gear).
> 
> Massive thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to Rammy (ramofpride), reeroy, Hillary, parthenoi, and Lucie for commenting.
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	8. He Is Adapting

Chapter Eight: He Is Adapting

_London, 1938_

Professor Albus Dumbledore—average height, skinny, middle-aged—was a strange man. His blue eyes twinkled with youthful good humour, though his true age was belied by the silver strands threading his auburn hair and beard. He might not have had such a hard time blending into a crowd, if not for the garishly-bright velvet suit he was wearing. Then again, perhaps not; even sitting in the drab mundanity of Wool's Orphanage, Dumbledore gave off a sense of extra, _different_. Tom did not need the man's introduction to know that he was a wizard; his own magic had perked with curiosity the moment the older man had walked in.

Wizard. Not the word Tom would have chosen, but it fit. _He was a wizard._ That knowledge threw his entire childhood into sharp clarity—no wonder he'd always dominated his peers, his very nature had simply made him superior to them. And now there was this opportunity to learn and grow, to attend a school where he could be among his own kind. He'd gotten so used to the idea that the magical community wanted nothing to do with him or Hermione that this invitation drove him to stunned silence.

"It's a lot to take in," the Professor interrupted his thoughts. His words were spoken kindly, but Tom couldn't help feeling as if the older man was secretly laughing at him.

He allowed his expression to fall blank, trying to will away the flush that was steadily creeping over his neck and cheeks. "It's not that," he hurried to say, affecting a neutral tone. "I've been using magic for years. I'm just surprised that there's a school."

Dumbledore took the mood-swing in stride, smiling bemusedly as he asked, "You can use your magic intentionally?"

Tom assessed the situation as best he could. Dumbledore had introduced himself as Deputy Headmaster and a professor of Transfiguration, whatever that was—this was a man that he would have to interact with regularly, who would potentially hold a position of authority over him for the next seven years—getting on his bad side would be a patently terrible idea. And, given the Professor's inherently _friendly_ demeanor, Tom got the feeling that just about _any_ of his more aggressive talents _would_ upset the man. He needed a trick that was both benign and impressive. After a moment's consideration, he summoned a tongue of crimson fire, allowing it to burn non-threateningly over his bed.

Dumbledore appraised the fire, running his fingers through the cold flames as he said, "That's impressive, Mr. Riddle." His tone wasn't precisely praising, but Tom did get the sense that his sentiment was genuine. "Most wizards your age could not manage that even with the benefit of an incantation and a wand."

"A wand?" Tom's mind briefly flashed to the vision he'd seen last year in the seaside cave: an Evil Man wielding an immensely powerful bit of polished wood. "Is that how _you_ do magic?"

Dumbledore withdrew a wand from an inner pocket, angling it for Tom to get a better look. It was glossy mahogany in color, about as long as the man's forearm, with a well-worn handle that had been rubbed smooth with age. The wand possessed no adornments, gave no indications that it might even be magical, let alone strong; wildly different from the one he'd seen in the cave. Yet Dumbledore wielded it with a surety, effortlessly banishing Tom's fire as he explained, "Our wands are conduits that allow us to focus and guide our spellcasting. Wandless magic, as you've proven, is perfectly possible," he smiled at Tom reassuringly, "though generally not suitable for more complicated spells." He fell into silence for a moment, staring briefly at where the fire had been. When he spoke again, his tone was still kindly but there was an unmistakable edge of authority present, "Since you say you've been at this for some time, I must ask you, Tom: how open with others have you been about your abilities?"

Seeing as he'd previously been on the receiving end of that need for secrecy, the question sparked Tom's temper. For a nasty second, he wasn't sure he'd be able to choke it down in time, but he understood the necessity of reassuring Dumbledore. This was a test, and he'd be damned if he failed it. "I've told no one," Tom replied demurely. "Not that anyone here would believe me, even if I had."

Yet, surprisingly, for someone who seemed so trusting of others, Dumbledore did not exactly take him at his word. One auburn brow rose as glittering blue eyes considered him over the brims of his half-moon glasses. "No one?"

He'd been caught in a lie? No one ever saw through his deceptions, not even Hermione and she'd had the benefit of practice! This wasn't good—it didn't cast him in a trustworthy light—but how to save the situation? Perhaps if he looked embarrassed or sorry—after all, he couldn't have known about their rules ahead of time. Tom cast his eyes downward, trying to appear contrite as he explained, "There's a girl, but she can do most things I can, so she _must_ be a witch."

"Caution would be wise, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore replied seriously. "Our world is shrouded in secrecy for a reason. If a muggle—non-magical person—were to witness something that betrayed our existence, there would be severe legal repercussions. Am I understood?"

Tom just barely stopped his jaw from clenching. How was _any_ of this his fault? He'd been purposefully left in ignorance for eleven years; he couldn't be held accountable for what he'd done in that time! "Yes, sir," he returned shyly, hoping Dumbledore couldn't see through _that_ as well. "However, as she can levitate her desk off the ground for several minutes straight, I'm fairly confident in my assessment that she _is_ a witch." His tone was brazen, bordering on rude, but the Professor didn't seem to notice.

Dumbledore was bemused once more, though clearly interested by this turn of events. "The two of you taught yourselves wandless magic?"

"Yes, Professor," Tom replied evenly. It was clear that whatever Dumbledore had expected, whatever was average for a boy his age, Tom had already surpassed it. Wanting to save a little face, he allowed his voice to drop into nervousness as he asked, "Was that wrong?" There was a mocking lilt to the question that he couldn't quite suppress; hopefully the older man would simply mistake it for anxiety.

"Wrong? No," the Professor hurried to assure him. Once more offering a cheery smile, he continued, "Surprising, perhaps. I certainly look forward to having you in class! That is, if you've decided to attend Hogwarts."

"I would like to, yes, but I haven't any money." Tom felt the burn of greatness slipping from his fingers as reality crashed down around him. He'd been stuck with his stunningly mediocre lessons provided by the orphanage for a reason after all, and it certainly _hadn't_ been because he enjoyed them. "There will be tuition fees no doubt, supplies to buy and other expenses necessary to attend… I've no way to pay for any of it." Even if Hogwarts offered scholarships, it was likely too late to apply.

Dumbledore remained calm in the face of his turmoil, pulling a small pouch and a thick envelope from the same inner pocket he'd withdrawn his wand. "The school is capable of providing you with an annual stipend," he explained, handing the items over. "It is not a large allowance, unfortunately, but it is enough to cover necessities, so long as you are unopposed to buying a few things secondhand."

Tom spared a glance for the coins—fat gold disks littered amongst smaller silver and bronze pieces, certainly not like any other currency that he'd seen—before opening the envelope. There were several sheets of thick parchment inside, along with a train ticket dated for the First of September. He flicked through the acceptance letter quickly, as well as the brief explanation of how to find the Hogwarts Express, before settling his attention upon the supply list. Neat rows of textbook titles—Hermione would be thrilled—followed by potion ingredients, basic equipment, uniform instructions, general guidelines for approved pets—row after row of fantastical brilliance laid out in the most mundane way possible. He couldn't help but notice, however, that there were no suggested shops listed alongside the unique items; familiar as he was with London, he couldn't think of a single establishment that might offer what he needed. "Where am I meant to get _any_ of this?"

If Dumbledore found his conspicuous lack of gratitude impolite, he took it masterfully in stride. Smiling cheerfully again, he explained, "There is a mercantile district right here in London—a place called Diagon Alley—where you will find everything you need. I can take you there now, if you're ready."

Tom waged a hearty debate with himself in the space of time it took for Dumbledore to rise from his seat. On the one hand, being guided by someone already immersed in the magical community could provide Tom with a lot of useful information. On the other hand, he didn't want it to seem as if that help was necessary—as if he were the wizarding equivalent of a country bumpkin. Pride winning out, he decided, "If it's all the same to you, sir, I would prefer to go alone."

Dumbledore nodded easily, but pressed, "Are you certain?"

An opportunity had arisen. Compromise was generally a foul concept to Tom—an admission that, for whatever reason, he was not capable of getting his own way—and yet here it might serve his purpose. If he asked the older man to escort him part of the way, there would still be time to suss out some valuable information. Mimicking a nervous smile that he'd seen Hermione wearing a few times, he amended, "Perhaps you could show me the way, and teach me how to use the money. But, yes, I would like to make my purchases unaccompanied. If that's alright." It was, in truth, more of a demand than a request, and no amount of coy shyness could cover that fact up.

But a part of Dumbledore seemed to understand, to know that Tom wished to learn on his own; that the orphan didn't want an audience as he attempted to stretch his coin as far as it could possibly go. Or to be _seen_ for the first time while in the company of a man who was decidedly not a relation. Perhaps he was giving far too much credit to his peers, but he didn't want anyone casting him in a pitying light before he'd gotten the chance to prove himself—and the Professor clearly realized that this first impression was important to him. "Very well," the older man acquiesced. "I shall take you as far as the Leaky Cauldron, then—it's the entrance to Diagon Alley."

* * *

_London, 1990_

Professor McGonagall took them first to Gringotts, where she helped them exchange some money for wizarding gold. The exchange rate was actually quite favorable for muggle money, she explained to them; apparently, they were still recovering from a steep market downturn that had begun some years before Hermione was even born. She only really listened with half an ear—economics was one of the few subjects she found deeply boring—too busy marveling at the bank around them.

The lobby alone was a massive temple of marble and brass, a hive of activity as goblins flit about and patrons came and went. Though the atmosphere felt timeless, there was something about the neatly polished floor and the rich candlelight that put her in mind of the 1800's—like she'd just stepped into a Victorian-era establishment. Diagon Alley was a bit like that as well—a cramped and winding cobblestone street, filled to the brim with shops of all kinds—it was how she'd always imagined an older, less modernised London. Yet, the magic turned it into something else entirely; what might have been a Victorian bank felt a bit more like a palace ripped from the realm of Middle Earth. Hermione could just picture an Elven Lord striding proudly through these halls.

As her group finally exited Gringotts, she took in the lively eccentricity of Diagon Alley once more. Witches and wizards were not quite what Hermione had expected. Not that she was disappointed; the atmosphere around her was very romantic and whimsical—the idealization of late medieval culture married together with touches from the 17- and 1800's. It had a certain look that was very charming, and where it lacked current technology magic picked up the slack. No personal computers among this crowd, that was for certain—no need for computers, in fact. Yet there were conspicuous anachronisms—like the wireless radios she could see stacked inside a junk shop—so the magical community could not be _completely_ isolated from the rest of the world.

There were very few people in normal street-clothes, now that she was really looking around. Here and there, Hermione could spot a jumper and a pair of trousers, but by and large the masses seemed to favour an entirely different sort of fashion. Witches were predominantly clothed in robe-like gowns: some were fanciful and complicated while others were as simple and understated as an old housecoat. The realization made her nervous at first—she knew nothing about muggle fashion, let alone what her _magical_ peers might find pleasing—until Professor McGonagall steered them into a dress shop; once she got an eyeful of the Hogwarts uniform, she wasn't quite as nervous anymore. Truthfully, the school's outfit didn't look that far off from what she might have worn at any other school, the only real difference being the black outer-robe that stood in place of a blazer. Standing still for the robe fitting was dreadfully hard—Hermione's mind kept skipping up the street to where she'd seen a sizable bookshop on their way in—but Madam Malkin was patient. Or rather, her tape measure was patient; it floated serenely around Hermione, unaided as it took all sorts of information down for the seamstress.

Uniform squared away, they returned to the busy street outside. Hermione was a bit disappointed when their next few stops were in service of general equipment—she'd decided to eschew a pet for now, too nervous at the uncertainties of boarding school and unfamiliar lessons to want the responsibility of an animal added into the mix—but eventually all that was left to purchase were her books and wand.

Professor McGonagall led them to a place called Olivander's. It was an ancient-looking shop, the storefront dulled with the heavy patina time, but the gilded letters were brightly polished. The Professor had her to go in alone, saying that the connection between a witch and her first wand was a private moment. Olivader's was eerie on the inside. It was very dim and quiet, the preternatural hush seeming to come from all the little boxes lining the walls—as if they were waiting with great anticipation.

An elderly gentleman stepped forward from the back of the shop. "Ah, a new face. Welcome," he greeted, beckoning her closer. Mr. Olivander was an interesting fellow—he reminded her of The Storyteller in his own unique way—and though his blue eyes were turning milky with age, they were still sharply intelligent. "Finding a wand is a delicate process, it can take seconds or hours. You must not be impatient or the wands will sense it and become stubborn. And a stubborn wand is a reckless wand—a very poor companion, indeed."

Hermione found her voice, small and quiet in the heavy atmosphere of the shop, "You speak as if they are alive."

"In a way, they are," he agreed, setting a score of boxes down in front of her. He carefully removed the lid of the topmost box and gingerly reached inside as he said, "Vine wood, 10 ¾ inches with a core of Dragon Heartstring."

It was a pale instrument, tapered at one end, with delicate carvings along the handle that resembled ivy. The wand appeared unobtrusive, no different from any of the other ones she'd seen, and yet when Hermione took it from Mr. Olivander her chest swelled with warmth. It felt right, _perfect_ , like she could do _anything_ so long as she did it with _this_ wand. She was so delighted at the sensation that she almost missed his next words.

"First try," Mr. Olivander marveled quietly.

Hermione blinked, lowering the wand a bit as she asked, "Is that bad?"

"It is very rare. You are the first person in this shop to do that in about, oh… fifty years, I'd say," he explained. A curious expression stole over him, something torn between worry and delight. He began slipping the untried boxes back under his small counter, spinning a tale as he went, "You know, my grandfather was very _keen_ about wandlore—most of it is just children's stories and comforting platitudes, but there were certain things he held to be true. 'Garrick,' he used to say, 'if you believe nothing else then believe this: wands are desperate for great people. If someone is chosen by the very first wand they pick up, it is because that wand could not stand being passed over by greatness. It is _destiny_.' He had a very romantic soul, my grandfather," he explained, giving her a sad smile as he turned back around to face her.

For as much as she'd been attempting to keep an opened mind, Hermione was still a logical girl—and, more to the point, she was not an arrogant one. She was dedicated, yes, and perhaps a little more clever than her peers, but did that really speak of _greatness_? This was all just coincidence—one in a million chances still happened on occasion, after all. And yet, she could not stop herself from asking, "Do you believe that?"

He hummed noncommittally, replying, "I can only tell you what I have seen."

Unimpressed with his suddenly evasive attitude, she pressed, "What about the other one, then? Did they do great things?"

"Yes," he sighed in a pained tone, slipping the wand out of her fingers. "Although for the sake of us all, I pray you do not follow down his path—the world could not survive another such as him."

Hermione watched as he put the wand back in its box and bent to retrieve some butcher paper and ribbons. "Who was he?"

"A brilliant young boy, ambitious, innovative," Mr. Olivander reminisced, carefully wrapping the narrow box. "He could have changed the very idea of what it meant to be magic." His fingers stuttered, shaking slightly as he created a delicate bow by hand. "Instead, he threw himself so deeply into the Darkness that we dare not speak his name." And with that, he slid the package over to her, signaling the end of their conversation.

Yet Hermione could not shake his words. Even as she wandered the impressive shelves of Flourish & Blotts, even as she cooed over the wealth of knowledge spread before her, she kept hearing Mr. Olivander at the back of her thoughts. His final meaning stunned her, for she'd never considered the possibility—there were _evil_ wizards. She didn't know exactly why that came as a surprise; after all, Newton had taught her that every property had an equal opposite. So, surely if there were marvelous wizards there _had_ to be monstrous ones as well. All very logical, and yet worrisome; so much power in the wrong hands could be catastrophic. Tom for example—what if they hadn't become friends, what if he'd remained that angry and violent little boy she'd first met? Proper magic at _his_ disposal could have been deadly. She liked to think that she'd changed him for the better, and she hoped, for the good of everyone, that she _truly_ had.

* * *

_London, 1938_

As they walked, Professor Dumbledore explained the wizarding money—a strange system based largely around odd numbers—and then talked a bit about the prices of everything on the supply list. Eventually, however, Dumbledore ran out of things to say, and though he'd assured Tom it was only a short walk from Wool's there was still a bit of time in hand.

Not one to waste an opportunity, Tom decided to ask after an idea that had sent both himself and Hermione into theoretical fits. "Is it hereditary?"

The Professor startled, perhaps having grown accustomed to the steady seconds of silence. "I beg your pardon?"

"The magic," Tom clarified, shooting a sideways glance at the older man, "is it a family trait? Otherwise, why me and no one else at Wool's?"

"It can be a family trait, yes, but not always," Dumbledore replied. Then, seeming to realize how much of a non-answer that was, he hurried to explain, "There are those among our numbers called muggleborns—individuals born with magical capabilities despite the fact that there has been no previous family history of such. However, and it is very important to understand this, regardless of what some refer to as blood status, our numbers are small—so whatever our origins, _each_ life is precious."

That was a sickeningly trite message, and patently untrue—regardless of magical origin, some people were just born worthless, and that was a fact. Tom suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. If Dumbledore _really_ thought everyone was so precious, then where had he been for eleven years? Tom wanted to confront him about it, to force the man to face his empty idealism, but held himself in check. Instead he asked, "Is there a way to tell, though? Was someone in my family magical or am I the first?" Hopefully he hadn't just signed himself up for part two of Dumbledore's moral treatise.

"I'm sorry, Tom," the older man replied heavily—and for all of Tom's cynicism, even he realized that the sentiment was genuine, "your situation is unfortunately unique. There are not many orphans within the wizarding world. All I know is that your name has been down in the school register since your birth. Hogwarts keeps meticulous records of all former students, however; perhaps, if any of your family attended, you might find information of them there."

It was a rather empty gesture; the only full name he had to search with was his father's and that wouldn't help him if the magic was from his mother's side. Though he'd long resented her for succumbing to death, he had to admit that names like Merope and Marvolo sounded much more in line with what he'd heard of the magical community. But how far could he get into the school records with only first names? And that was only assuming that either of them had gone to Hogwarts at all. There was still the possibility that he was a muggleborn; that assumption didn't feel right, though—somewhere, deep down, he knew there had to be old magic flowing through him. "Would someone from a wizarding family be stronger?"

Dumbledore shook his head derisively. "You will certainly meet those who would like you to believe that is true, but the fact of the matter is that there's no proof a pureblood is any stronger than a halfblood or a muggleborn. It is the individual that matters, Tom."

Of course, given what he'd seen of Dumbledore's inclusive ideology, there was no way to tell whether he was hearing a fact or an opinion. Not wanting to press the issue—lest he accidentally trigger a full-blown lecture series—Tom changed the subject, "Are there different sorts of magic?"

"Oh yes, you will start with a number of subjects this term," the Professor replied enthusiastically. "Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, History of Magic, Astronomy—"

"Animals?" He had a sudden impulse, a desire to impress. There was one power he knew he possessed that Hermione did not—save time-travel, but his lips were sealed on that front—and though Dumbledore would likely never meet the girl, Tom wanted this moment to set himself apart. And yet a small voice at the back of his thoughts cautioned him to hold his tongue. If he had not shared something so important with Hermione, then why should he tell a man that had objectively not earned even a single ounce of his trust?

"Care of Magical Creatures is offered as an elective starting third year," Dumbledore nodded. "Do you like animals?"

Tom waged silent war with the voice. He knew he'd already impressed the older man with his fire trick, but Dumbledore had implied that there was an incantation for that spell, meaning it wasn't nearly so unique as he'd thought. Whether the Professor thought him gifted was irrelevant—gifted students came and went—Tom needed to show the man that he was _different_. The small voice lost the fight. "I like snakes."

"An odd choice in the city," Dumbledore said lightly, clearly just humouring him at this point.

"They find me all throughout London, searching me out so that they can talk to a," he switched to the serpent tongue, preferring to use their word as he did not have one of his own, " _Snake-Speaker_."

Dumbledore snapped to attention, nearly flinching at the spitting hiss that issued from his mouth. The older man went curiously still, deathly calm as he asked, "You can talk to snakes?"

He widened his eyes and adopted a serious expression, asking with boyish earnestness, "Is that normal for a wizard?" He already had a fair idea that it wasn't. After all, Hermione had never displayed any such ability, and while two children were hardly an ideal sampling size to draw conclusions from, Dumbledore's reaction seemed to support his idea—it _was_ unique.

Dumbledore's face danced through a curious number of expression, never settling on one long enough to be identifiable. At length, he said, "Parselmouths are rare, though there _have_ been others." He glanced at Tom for a long second, both of their expressions now studiously blank, before glancing around the street. "Here we are," he said, walking up next to a pub, sounding suddenly relieved to have finally reached their destination. "Just ask the barman to show you how to get through. Would you like me to wait here for you, to walk you back?"

The idea of Parselmouths clearly upset the older man, and while Tom wanted to pursue the thought further he didn't want to alienate his future Professor. Better to remove temptation and send him away. "I'm sure you're very busy, Professor Dumbledore," he replied demurely. "I know my own way around London."

To his credit, Dumbledore did not let any of the liberation he likely felt show on his face. Instead, he gave Tom a curt nod, "Then I shall see you at the start of term, Mr. Riddle," and disappeared into a crowd of passersby.

The Leaky Cauldron was not at all impressive—it was a shabby, dusty establishment that set rather a poor tone and greatly lowered Tom's expectations for Diagon Alley. Through the light rain of ash that seemed to be accumulating from all the different ways people were smoking, he managed to locate the barman and enquire how he was supposed to get through.

Finally standing at the entrance to Diagon Alley, Tom conceded that he could not have been more wrong—it was _magnificent_. There were shops everywhere he turned, vendors even set up in the street, and not a single boarded-up window to be seen. Unlike the London outside, the Alley was clean and bright and welcoming—no starving urchins begging for scraps, no mud crusting over the neat cobbles, and though it lacked the fancy electric lights that were popping up all over the city it certainly didn't suffer from their absence. Diagon Alley was held aloof from the troubles of the outside world, a haven of peace and prosperity.

He could not overlook the people, however. There was nothing overtly extraordinary about the witches and wizards around him—they were very much like any other crowd he'd ever seen: some tall, others short, some clever, many not. In fact, were it not for the magic, the scene before him would actually be quite mundane. Why had he been forced to wait eleven years for this? Why was this some grand secret, and who had thought that they had the authority to decide Tom's fate? Who had thought it would be _best_ for him to grow up in ignorance? 'Unfortunately unique situation' or not, there had been nothing stopping any of the clearly wealthy families littering the street from adopting him, from sparing him a childhood full of bitter struggles. What gave _them_ the right to forget about him—to discard him—and hope that introducing him to a world that he _always_ should have been a part of would erase their sins?

They were all in for a rude awakening. Tom Marvolo Riddle did not forgive, and he did not forget. It would take time—years, maybe decades—but eventually he knew he would call in that debt and mete out punishment for this transgression.

Setting those thoughts aside, Tom made his way down the Alley, purchasing his supplies as systematically as he could. Never having truly owned much before, these things were all wondrous to him, yet he could not help resenting the necessity of buying so much secondhand. He was as discerning as possible, scouring shelves high and low for the newest copies and the best quality. His books were in relatively good order—although, disappointingly, there was not enough money to afford him a few extracurricular titles—basic equipment a bit scuffed, but otherwise perfectly acceptable. His robes, too, were pristine, sharp eyes unable to find fault with the school uniforms. The thought came to him that, even secondhand, they were still the finest clothes he'd ever owned.

But there was one thing left to purchase, the one thing that would truly be his and his alone: a wand. He wasn't entirely sure how to feel about wands—he'd been doing magic well enough without one—but the idea that it would be the first thing he'd ever owned that no one else had possessed before him was deeply appealing.

Olivander's was different from the rest of the Alley—dim, dark, quiet, sharing none of the flash favoured by its neighbours. Unassuming as it was, Tom still found it an interesting place. Potential swirled thickly through the air, unspoken promises of power and wealth—the silent cries of _hundreds_ of wands begging for him to choose them. Each nondescript box called to him, pleaded for attention.

"Ah, another bound for their first year at Hogwarts, I presume." A man stepped from the back of the shop; he was lean and whippish, with startlingly blue eyes that seemed to see more than was actually present in the physical world.

Knowing that he would not likely encounter this man again—barring some sort of unfortunate accident—Tom decided to eschew pleasantries. "How does this all work?" He asked, scanning the long rows of narrow boxes.

"The wand chooses the wizard," Mr. Olivander replied in such a tone as to suggest it was a common phrase. "It can take a lot of trying out to find the right match. Sadly, there is no way to expedite the process, but if you want a wand that obeys you completely then you must have patience."

Tom allowed his fingers to slide along the labels, stopping when he felt a great pull. Idly, distracted, he asked, "But any wand would respond?"

"To a greater or lesser extent," Olivander shrugged, "but no wand will ever be as comfortable as the one that truly chooses you."

The box was identical to all the others, but the air around it felt different. This wand _roared_ with the desire to be his. It left the air thick with aggression and had a strong edge of welcoming greed that he found strangely appealing. The label proclaimed it to be, 'Yew, 13 ½ inches, Phoenix Feather'. He'd always liked yew trees—ancient, enduring, able to survive great stress without succumbing to death or disease. And a Phoenix Feather—bringing in ideas about the great cycles of death and rebirth—was just fanciful enough to make him smile. Tom didn't even have to touch the wand to know that this was the one.

But appearances had to maintained, and there was no sense in getting gouged on the price for seeming rude. Turning to Olivander, he pointed at the box and politely asked, "May I?"

From the older man's expression it was clear that this was not how things were done, yet he seemed curious enough not to take offense. "By all means. We must start somewhere, after all."

Tom slid the box away from its compatriots and carefully pried the lid off. The wand inside was bone-white in colour, twisted almost imperceptibly in a gentle, tapering spiral. Its handle displayed the natural beauty of the wood, pockmarks and scarring coming together with such regularity that they at first appeared to create an intentional and intricate design. He hardly dared to breathe as his fingers curled around the surprisingly light instrument. At first contact, the searing burn of magic instantly shot up his arm, but it did not hurt—it felt like _triumph_ , like _completion_ , like he'd been missing a _vital_ appendage all these years. Curious, Tom gave the wand a wave, summoning a tongue of azure fire—it came to him as easily, as _effortlessly_ as if he were standing in the rich air of that seaside cave.

Olivander watched him in stunned fascination, needing a full minute to process what had happened. Eventually he muttered out a price, thoughtful eyes watching as the boy exited his shop.

Tom wasted no time organizing his purchases once he returned to Wool's. He flipped reverently through his books, studied his wand, reread the Letters to be sure he understood what he had to do. Hogwarts was going to change everything. Finally, some proper instruction for him and Hermione to—

_Hermione!_

Given that Hogwarts was already over a thousand years old, it was a likely bet that it still existed fifty-two years in the future, and there was no doubt that Hermione would be invited to attend. Similarly, she would know that there was no doubt he would be attending. So how to explain why they were both first years at the same school and yet didn't share any classes? He might be able to keep the ruse up for a few days, but after the first week she would know something was wrong. And what would he tell her then? 'Sorry Hermione, but I've been lying to you all this time and am actually visiting from several decades in the past,' seemed like an excellent way to get her angry. Non-violent or not, he had a feeling she might actually _slap_ him if those words left his lips. If only there was a way to shift her focus from what would likely be perceived as a betrayal, to get her _excited_ about the prospect instead…

Perhaps if he presented it as a puzzle? Hermione loved mysteries—she might get so caught up in the idea of solving his secret that her anger fell to the side. It was a shaky gamble, and a part of him knew that continuing to lie to her was not advisable, but it seemed better than letting her anger feaster over the remaining weeks of their summer. At Hogwarts she would be surrounded by the unfamiliar, making Tom—a well known quantity and, to date, her only friend—all that much more soothing and precious to her. Would she really stay mad at him when she had no one else to turn to? He didn't think so. Tom was prepared to weather a storm or two, but in the end he knew she would forgive him—she always did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter did not want to end, which I find particularly hilarious because it was supposed to be part of last chapter. Canon material might actually make this story longer than anticipated.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to Rammy (ramofpride), Lucie, FreyaFallen, and earedein for commenting!
> 
> Please Comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	9. He Is Curious

Chapter Nine: He Is Curious

_London, 1990_

Hermione found herself in the midst of an unexpected crisis. She'd been so thrilled to have found out about the wizarding world that her lack of knowledge hadn't immediately occurred to her. In a matter of weeks she would be traveling to Hogwarts, yet she knew next to nothing about magical culture while a number of her peers would have been _born_ into that knowledge. Regardless of her rudimentary understanding of how to control her own magic, there was _theory_ and _history_ to catch up on. She didn't want to start off her new life continually a step behind everyone else! It had not even been a full day since Professor McGonagall's abrupt entrance into her life, yet Hermione had already devoured _Modern Magical History_ and was busy devising a schedule to pre-read all her textbooks before term started.

However, she'd be lying if she didn't admit that _Modern Magical History_ kept distracting her even after she'd finished it. The book was full of all sorts of fantastical landmarks and battles, but it was the chapter on Harry Potter that really drew her attention. There was something unsettlingly familiar about the Dark Lord—

"Holding the book closer to your face will not help you understand it any better."

Hermione startled at the unexpected, teasing voice. "Tom," she admonished, finding him suddenly lurking in the corner of her room. "Don't sneak up on me like that!" His appearances had once been preceded by a sharp noise, but lately he'd been traveling with all the cacophony of a shadow. Once her pulse returned to normal, his presence evoked an eager smile. "You must come and look," she beamed, gesturing to the mess of supplies strewn about her. "The most wonderful thing happened yesterday!"

Tom allowed his own smile to bloom, lazy and knowing, as he withdrew a wand not unlike her own from his grey tunic. Almost mockingly, he guessed, "Someone told you about an _exclusive_ school?"

"Isn't it amazing?" She fairly bounced over to him in her excitement, grabbing one of his hands as she danced around. "No more hiding, no more spending _weeks_ trying to figure out how to make something work—there will be classrooms and professors and _textbooks!"_

He humoured her high energy, but didn't stop himself from rolling his eyes and sarcastically retorting, "The very _definition_ of a school, yes."

"There will finally be other people to work with, Tom," Hermione stopped bouncing, gaze drilling into his dark eyes, "people who _understand_ , who are like us."

But Tom looked away, scratching at the back of his neck nervously. "I'm not so sure of that, Hermione. The professor I spoke to seemed rather perturbed at what I could do." His black eyes returned, staring at her seriously. "I have a feeling that we might be _different_ no matter where we go."

That gave her pause, because she'd had a similar experience, hadn't she? "Professor McGonagall did seem a bit shocked when I did wandless magic." The older woman had tried to hide it, had even gone so far as to encourage Hermione to begin studying at her earliest possible convenience, and yet… For a moment, something unsettled, perhaps even nervous, had flitted across the Professor's face. She shook those gloomy thoughts away with a loud, "But so what?" Tom was a master at making her second guess herself, but she would not allow this idle speculation to tarnish her joy. Not today.

He gave her a strangely pitying look. "You already know what it's like to be top of your class, Hermione. Everyone around you will start to feel threatened by your superior intellect, to the point where even friendly or helpful overtures will get interpreted as criticism— _you're living that right now_." He took a step closer, carefully laying his hands upon her shoulders as he asked, "And how do you think children from old wizarding families are going to feel about the fact that it's a muggleborn witch upstaging them?"

"It won't be _me_ upstaging them, Tom," she shrugged him off, moving back toward her bed. " _You_ always manage to outdo me at the last minute."

He held his hands up placatingly, but continued, "All I'm saying is not to get your hopes up. People remain the same no matter where you go. I doubt the social climate at Hogwarts is really going to be any different than primary school was."

"Pessimist," Hermione laughed, wanting to lighten the mood. "Why do you always anticipate the worst?" Which was a stupid thing to ask, seeing as she already knew the answer. Aside from the moments he stole away with her, his life was not a pretty one—experience had taught him to anticipate hardship.

Tom sat down beside her and heaved a tired sigh. "You make yourself vulnerable to heartache. I don't want to see you hurt." An arm slid around her shoulders drawing her close. "Anyway, we'll still have each other."

While it was an endearing sentiment, she felt that it lacked his usual foresight. "Tom," she said slowly, pushing back enough to see his face, "Hogwarts is going to change everything. We might not even end up in the same House, and we'll more likely than not make different groups of friends—I'm not saying we can't still be friends ourselves, but it's not really going to be just the two of us against the whole world anymore."

Something flashed in his dark eyes, but it was there and gone too quickly to interpret. "We'll see," he replied easily, but there was an underlying note of warning in his tone.

She tilted further away, confused now. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't anticipate drifting apart and certainly won't be making premature allowances for it." He drew her back in, stalwart as he explained, "Yes, Hogwarts _is_ going to change everything, but we will adapt. We've been friends for three years already, why throw that away at the first sign of trouble?"

"What trouble?" Hermione pushed her hands against his chest, wanting to see his face. More and more, she'd noticed that there was occasionally a disconnect between _what_ Tom said and _how_ he said it. Cutting remarks were carefully hidden behind brilliant smiles, his eyes glowed with errant greed when he expressed concern—sometimes she got the impression that she was seeing behind cracks in a mask, but instances were becoming less frequent even as she became more aware of them. She wanted to attribute this strange behaviour to the toxic environment he lived in—life at the orphanage had taught him nothing but cruelty, putting him at odds with more sincere emotions—because the alternative, that he was simply acting, was _terrifying_. She studied him for a long moment, then carefully said, "I'm just pointing out that things will be different."

His lips twitched into a momentary frown, but it was quickly overshadowed by a flood of nervousness. "Look, there's something I haven't told you about myself, Hermione." He raised his hand, cutting off her immediate response as he explained, "I thought I was protecting you by not saying anything, but it's occurred to me that you're going to notice something's wrong sooner rather than later." There was something cold and implacable in Tom's eyes, a harshness that said whatever was coming was inevitable.

Hermione was chilled to her core. Though they argued often, they hadn't truly _fought_ in years but this conversation was quickly promising to stir up something ugly. "I don't understand."

"You will once we get to Hogwarts," he replied shortly. Then, to head off her inevitable torrent of questions, added, "I can't come right out and say it because there could be repercussions, so you'll have to guess first."

What on Earth was he talking about? It sounded serious, dire even, but she couldn't pull her attention away from the implications enough to appreciate the full picture. Softly, full of an anger so hot it bordered on malice, she asked, "Do you mean to tell me that you've been lying to my face for three years?"

He grimaced, clearly frustrated by her question. Instead of answering, he grabbed her hands between his own and repeated, "I thought I was protecting you."

"From what?" She snapped, trying not to let his words soften her.

"I didn't want you hurt by the truth. And to be honest, I don't fully understand the nature of this thing." Despairing, he added, "I thought that if I drew attention to it, something _bad_ might happen to us."

Hermione's immediate response was to be furious he hadn't trusted her enough to confide this secret—even now he was making her jump through hoops to earn the truth. On the other hand, what if the truth _was_ dangerous? He'd taken it upon himself to shield her from potential peril, an action that could not have come naturally to the downtrodden orphan. It was sweet in a way, oddly chivalrous. And in the grand scheme of things, she knew that friendship was still a relatively new concept to him—perhaps, in the interest of preserving what they had, he'd failed to consider the importance of shared burdens. The whole thing still irritated her deeply, and it would be a lie not to admit she was hurt by this revelation, but she thought she at least understood _why_ he'd lied for so long.

Not wanting to spur on the ugly argument that could still erupt between them, she resolved to swallow down the brunt of her anger until she fully understood the situation. She took a few deep breaths to center herself, then asked, "Could you give me a hint?"

"No, Hermione," he laughed—and even she had to admit that his patronising tone did nothing to help solidify her resolution. "You have to figure it out on your own."

What did she know about Tom that seemed out of the ordinary, and could anything truly be ruled out when magic was involved? Yet, even in the face of that great conundrum, the answer came to her almost immediately. "It's something to do with your traveling, isn't it?" He nodded, but his confirmation wasn't any great boon. What could he have possibly lied about in regards to that power? Biting her lip, Hermione guessed, "Are you not really from London?"

"Be patient," Tom replied softly. "I know you'll put it all together soon."

His confidence in her went a long way in soothing her bruised ego. A sudden and frightening thought occurred to her, and she blurted out, "You are still going to Hogwarts though, right?"

He smiled wide, eyes glittering merrily. "Absolutely." And that was the last word he said on the matter, refusing to entertain any further questions from her.

Instead they spent the afternoon recounting the marvels of Diagon Alley, talking about the funny creatures and the wonderful merchandise they'd ogled. Eventually, Olivander's popped into the conversation.

Tom eyed her wand consideringly and asked, "What was it like?"

"It was a bit strange, actually," Hermione admitted, recalling the unusual encounter. "Mr. Olivander got nervous when the first wand I tried turned out to be the right one. He said I was the first person to do that in about fifty years, and when I asked him about it… He became very jittery." She hesitated, stroking her wand thoughtfully. Dropping her tone to a hushed whisper, she finally confided the thought that had been plaguing her, "Do you know, I think he was trying to imply that the boy who'd done it fifty years ago was actually the last Dark Lord?"

Tom's eyes flashed in curiosity, a brow rising as he asked, "Who?"

"Honestly," she clucked disapprovingly, "have you not picked up a single book?"

He smiled in that particular way of his—a crooked twist of his lips that always preceded something deeply uncomfortable—and replied, "The stipend I was provided with only covered necessities; nothing on modern history, that's for sure."

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't think—" Hermione cut herself off, blushing profusely. She hadn't given a moment's consideration to his financial state, and it made her sound insensitive. Embarrassed, she handed him _Modern Magical History_ and explained, "Olivander said that boy became so dark and terrifying that the wizarding world is afraid to so much as speak his name. And look!" She pointed all over the chapter about Harry Potter. "In all these books the Dark Lord is referred to by little epithets—You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I don't know whether to be insulted by the comparison, or simply mystified."

Tom chuckled and shrugged. "I'd take it as a compliment."

"Of course _you_ would," she rolled her eyes. "It's not exactly the moral outlook I'd like to be known for, however."

One black brow rose mockingly. "And yet I see you take the comparison of power in stride."

"It's nice to be recognized," Hermione admitted easily. "I don't want to be feared though, and I got the impression that Olivander _did_ a bit."

That really made Tom laugh. "You're about as threatening as a fluffy bunny. What's there to be frightened of?"

"Potential, I guess," she shrugged, feeling a bit silly for bringing the whole thing up now.

"I don't see the sense in being threatened by what could be rather than what is," he replied, looking back to the book in his hands. He flipped a few pages, scanning lightly, then asked, "What happened to this bloke, anyway?"

"No one's entirely sure. He just sort of disappeared after being defeated by a boy named Harry Potter." It was strange to have so much new history to learn, stranger still that she was only just finding out about something that had happened during her own lifetime. "Harry's our age, you know—he might be attending Hogwarts with us. Isn't that exciting?"

"It's certainly something," Tom deadpanned.

"You're such a killjoy," she accused. "Does nothing interest you?"

"That's quite the case of hero worship your developing there," he teased, ignoring her question. "I'd be careful around Potter if I were you—the boy might come charging after your head, what with Olivander having prophesied you as the next Dark Lord."

"Dark Lady, technically," Hermione corrected, "and that's not funny."

Tom gave her an exaggerated bow and drawled, "Yes, My Lady." However, as he straightened up the humour fell from his face and his fingers tightened about the book almost compulsively. Despite that, he enquired in his politest tone, "May I borrow this?"

It was amazing how far they'd come together—she could remember a time when he wouldn't have bothered asking. "Just make sure you bring it back," she answered generously—after all, it would be weeks yet before he'd gain access to the Hogwarts Library and she was sure he'd want to study a bit before arriving.

His smile nearly split his face in two, and he gave her another mocking bow. "As you wish."

* * *

_London, 1938_

Tom grit his teeth as he endured pure nothingness. There was no sound in the Void, no light by which to see, nothing to touch, taste, or smell. He was cut so completely from his senses that it was difficult to know if he even had a body in this hellish place. For all he could perceive, he was nothing more than pure consciousness—like a ghost slipping in and out of the veil. The experience was trying, traumatising even, but this was the price he paid for his access to the future.

His ticket had just gotten wildly more expensive. That morning, his journey through the Abyss had lasted all of a few seconds—over in the proverbial blink of an eye. Now, mere hours later, it was half a minute and counting. What had changed? What had he done to cause this?

His understand of the nature of Time was still depressingly murky, and though he wasn't sure what _caused_ the Void he did have a theory about its presence. The more information he gained that could potentially impact the course of his future, the longer the Void stretched before him. If that theory was true, then the book he'd borrowed off Hermione was possibly worth its weight in gold.

Wool's Orphanage finally appeared before him in all its drab glory. Much as he despised the sight, it was still a relief. Feeling somewhat shaken by the extended taste of full sensory deprivation, he decided to immerse himself among the treasures hidden in his room—the sooner he put the experience behind him, the better.

In service of that idea, he turned his attention to _Modern Magical History_ , rabidly devouring chapter after chapter. Hermione's words whispered at the back of his thoughts, giving him all sorts of grand ideas—it was a struggle to remain realistic in the face of such information.

But aside from eerie coincidence, Tom honestly had no reason to believe that the 'boy from fifty years ago'—the future Dark Lord—was him. Yes, the general timeline fit and it did match his recent experience, but Olivander could have lied, Hermione might have misunderstood him, or perhaps finding your wand on the first go wasn't as rare as the wand-maker wanted people to believe. There were any number of likely explanations that didn't involve Tom becoming infamous. It was an interesting idea, though—a single person becoming so powerful that the whole world feared them unequivocally. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named seemed a bit out of Tom's immediate time range, however. Not like Grindelwald, an international figure that was about to impact the wizarding world in a big way, if only briefly.

War was on the horizon—it was something everyone felt in the air, but no one wished to acknowledge. One spark could set it all off, changing the world forever. Perhaps Dark Lords were opportunists—Grindelwald was noted for his rise to power amidst the chaos of the Second World War, a conflict that was about to erupt with all the fury of a wildfire. His power had been meteoric, boundless and increasing, until 1945. Until his duel with Albus Dumbledore.

How and why would a professor of Transfiguration challenge a Dark Lord—and more to the point, how had Dumbledore won? And then that trend had continued, leading Dumbledore to champion the side of Light in a war against the next Dark Lord! Either his bleeding heart ideology was a front for a lust of power that rivaled Tom's own, or the man _truly_ cared _that much_. Either way, it was clear that he was an important person to keep an eye on—that Tom was about to spend seven years under his tutelage was fortuitous.

It struck Tom that in one afternoon he'd learned more about his immediate future than he had in the last three years. Then again, he'd approached the whole situation as an intellectual exercise—he'd been so wrapped up in the hows and whys of time-travel that he'd failed to take full advantage. It hadn't properly crossed his mind to use this power to his benefit, aside from visiting Hermione. Knowledge of the future was like possessing a crystal ball—he could avoid disasters, profit on "chance", cheat death even. The only gatekeeper standing in the way of that information was Hermione.

And Dumbledore, apparently. Fifty years seemed like an awful long time, long enough that there wouldn't be anyone left at Hogwarts that might recognize him—assuming his power still worked within school grounds. And yet there in plain black and white, the book declared that Dumbledore was Headmaster. That could be problematic; unless the old wizard was completely senile or blind by the 1990's, then there was the possibility that Tom might be found out. For all he knew about the nature of the timeline, Dumbledore could already be on the lookout for him in the future. He would have to be particularly careful when visiting Hermione, although if there was one thing Tom knew how to do, it was blend into a crowd.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: No, Hermione! Stop rationalizing his behavior! Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!
> 
> I never want to get too serious in these notes, but I feel like it would be insensitive not to acknowledge what's happened. In light of recent events, I'd just like to say that Alan Rickman was an inspiration to us all and will be sorely missed.
> 
> Massive thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to FreyaFallen, Azhwi, earedien, adlyb, Elin, and Gabriella for commenting!
> 
> Please Comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	10. He Is Surprised

Chapter Ten: He Is Surprised

_London, 1990_

Hermione tried to scan Platform 9¾, feeling a bit lost in the crush of so many people. Being muggles, her parents had only been able to accompany her as far as the station. Initially, she'd not been very nervous about that but now, surrounded by tearful farewells and joyful reunions, she felt keenly alone. Her eyes stayed alert for any sight of Tom—why hadn't they thought to make any sort of arrangements to meet up?—but there were simply too many people around. It would be easier to find him on the train.

The Hogwarts Express was a lovely contraption, an old-fashioned steam engine in brilliant scarlet. The interior was quite different from any other train she'd been on—plush carpets and glossy wood, each compartment spacious and comfortable-looking enough for the hours-long journey ahead of them. The Underground's hard plastic seats didn't even begin to compare.

Hermione tried to do a cursory search of the train, but so many people were coming and going that she decided to stop until after they'd left the station. She found a relatively empty compartment to sit in, the only other occupant being a boy. If she had to guess, she would say he was probably a First Year as well. He was lanky like Tom, but his rounded face was open, if a bit nervous. There was something earnest about him, a sort of impenetrable honesty that she found appealing.

Hoping to get off on the right foot, she held out her hand. "I'm Hermione Granger."

"Neville Longbottom." He seemed oddly grateful that she was speaking to him.

The two chatted merrily for some minutes, and though she found his earnestness endearing it became clear to Hermione that Neville was far too anxious to provide engaging company. Perhaps it was an unfair judgement, premature even—venturing to a completely new school _was_ frightening in some ways—but he simply didn't cut the same compelling figure Tom always had and his nervous disposition made it very difficult to connect. There was a compassionate instinct at the far reaches of her mind that told her to help him, protect him from the struggles she predicted in his future. Be a friend to make a friend. Another part of her, a part that sounded suspiciously like her mysterious orphan, told her that the boy wasn't really interesting enough to merit her time.

It was a shockingly rude thought, one she deliberately set aside, almost spitefully eager to lend a hand when Neville frantically declared that his pet toad had gone missing. It felt _nice_ to be helpful, and it wasn't as if she hadn't already been planning to search the train anyway. She inspected the front half while he inspected the end, and when they met up in the middle he appeared stricken that they were both still empty-handed. They swapped halves and continued looking, Hermione now feeling a bit of Neville's anxiousness as she still had yet to catch sight of toad or Tom. The logical part of her knew that her friend had to be somewhere—the toad as well, though she'd bet anything Trevor was fine and would turn up eventually—but she couldn't help worrying. What if something had happened? What if Tom had missed the train?

Just as her fantasies began running wild, she caught sight of him through a compartment window. Hermione slid open the door and was disappointed when faced with a boy who was decidedly _not_ Tom, though it was easy to understand her mistake as they shared a passing similarity. Pale complexion, dark hair, but it was apparent that this boy did not possess Tom's desire for neatness—his hair was in a state of riot and he was sitting amid a small fortune of sweets and wrappers. Behind a pair of badly broken glasses, his eyes sparked with good humor and mischief, almost impish really, and she felt immediately drawn to him.

There was another boy in the compartment as well. He was gangly in comparison to his companion, with a shock of red hair and an explosion of freckles. His blue eyes regarded her with annoyance, clearly displeased by her interruption. Despite this, it was obvious that he'd been having fun just seconds prior, a notion that made her strangely jealous—for all their camaraderie, for all their closeness, in the three years she'd been friends with Tom, she wasn't certain they'd ever had _fun_. Not like this, not just for the sake of it, the way other children did; he would simply scoff and say they were _above_ that sort of thing.

"Have either of you seen a toad?" She asked, wincing when her words came out a touch too demanding. Attempting to soften her tone, she added, "A boy named Neville's lost one," but, in her nervousness, it came out sounding just as bossy.

The redhead frowned and explained, "We already told him we haven't."

Hermione wanted to point out that she couldn't have known that, but she didn't think it would help much. Instead, she focused on the boy's raised wand, brightly asking, "Were you casting a spell?" She was eager to see other people practising proper magic.

But instead of sharing her enthusiasm, the boy's ears flushed darkly in embarrassment; he made a vague movement with his wand and mumbled out what sounded more like a poem than an incantation. When the 'spell' failed to produce any results his shoulders slumped and he became flustered.

A part of her knew she should just leave well enough alone, say her farewells and continue her search—that people didn't like to be corrected—but she couldn't help herself. Half the appeal of knowledge was being able to share it with others. She knew how to turn the rat yellow, so why not tell him? "Are you sure that's a real spell? Only, I would have used _Inmuto Pigmentum_."

"What?"

Nervous again, she blurted out quickly, "The Colour Changing Charm. We'll be learning it soon, I expect. I read through all our course books, you see—it's in the front half of _The Standard Book of Spells_."

Both boys were regarding her in shock, their eyes reflecting a familiar and unwelcome accusation: _overachiever_. So far from London and she still couldn't escape the mantle of Little Miss Know-It-All. Why was Tom the only person who could accept that part of her?

Wanting to save face—a bit desperate to _fit in_ somewhere—she dropped the subject, instead offering, "I'm Hermione Granger." Neither boy looked too pleased to be making introductions, but they both humoured her.

The redhead grumbled out, "Ron Weasley," mood completely sour now after failing to impress.

The dark haired boy didn't seem to mind her presence so much, but his return of, "Harry Potter," was guardedly indifferent.

Hermione felt her mouth drop open; she'd known it was possible they could be together at Hogwarts, but she'd never honestly thought they might meet. Here was living history seated before her; the only known survivor of the Killing Curse, saviour of the wizarding world! He wasn't quite what she'd imagined—the books had only spoken of him as a baby, after all—perhaps she'd had in mind something more traditional, more heroic. Small, impish Harry in his baggy clothes defied all expectation. Despite this, there was something inviting about him, and she thought she could sense in Harry a bit of the loneliness that she and Tom had both experienced. She decided right away that she wanted to be his friend.

Unfortunately, that decision was not enough to curb her tongue and she found herself babbling rapid-fire about history books and Houses at the two boys. Ron was clearly just waiting for her to go away, Harry simply bemused by what she was saying, and so she quickly took her leave before she could make matters worse. It wasn't great as far as first impressions went—she'd done precious little to endear herself—but surely there would be time enough to change their minds.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1938_

The journey from Platform 9 ¾ was a tediously long affair. The platform itself had been a pleasant, if brief, sight—the first step in a momentous new direction—but the train ride left Tom unaccountably bored. There was little interest to be found among his peers, and so he spent the majority of the trip with his nose buried in his school books. He had thought once or twice about visiting Hermione, but ultimately decided against it. He'd never attempted to travel from a moving object before; he wasn't sure if he'd appear back on the train or in the valley that it had been traveling through. Since he didn't wish to become stranded, he had to abandon the thought, though it may have proven a welcome relief from his boredom.

Dusk had settled upon Hogsmeade station, and by the time the new students finally saw their very first glimpse of Hogwarts night was in full bloom. The school was unlike anything Tom had ever seen: a sprawling _castle_ with turrets and towers spiralling into the air like sentries; there were more windows than he could count, mullioned glass burning golden with firelight; outbuildings and additions were stacked together haphazardly, all set into the side of a great _mountain_. There was something illogical but oh-so-pleasing about the architecture, and the air around the school felt rich and ancient, like it was full of secrets.

Like he was finally home.

It took ages to get across the lake, to finally stand in the Entrance Hall. Tom could practically feel the weight of the stones around him—ancient, influential thresholds that had endured for centuries. How many powerful wizards had come and gone? How much greatness had stepped through these very doors? How many had stood as he stood: an eager acolyte waiting to conquer? The notion took his breath away, made him hunger for the opportunity to leave his own mark in his wake. If the classmates around him felt a similar calling, they did not show it—their faces and bright eyes reflected awe and wonder, but none of the determination that coursed through Tom. How could they be so simpleminded, so blind, to not feel the stirring, burning agony of ambition?

Did Hermione feel it? Fifty-Two years from right now, was she walking through these very doors and feeling the same compelling urge to dominate?

In the weeks prior to September, he had read as many of Hermione's books as possible, studying what he could of Grindelwald and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The information was murky with what felt like strategic gaps along the way—as if someone had deliberately cut key facts from the records so as not to entice anyone to follow in those footsteps. Even so, Tom found both their careers intriguing. What must it have been like—would be like—to possess that much power? To be so uniformly fearsome that everyone lived in terror of you? Tom himself had had only a microcosmic taste of that at Wool's and he wanted _more_ —wanted greater, even, than the lofty heights of these Dark Lords so that he prove to everyone he was the _best_. That leaving him to rot alone in London was a grave error he would not forgive. Obviously, reaching such a pinnacle would take time, but Tom was confident in his skills—he was not, perhaps, a _lucky_ boy, but the things he wanted always _did_ come easily to him. He had at least two career templates to follow, after all; how hard could it really be?

Those thoughts were pushed from his head at his first sight of the Great Hall. He'd really only done a cursory amount of reading on Hogwarts, far more interested in learning about magic than the place he'd be studying at, which he now regretted. Everything was so new, and he had trouble keeping himself from looking exactly like the awed children around him. The Great Hall was massive—the whole of his orphanage could have fit inside it—long tables present for each of the Houses and one higher table for the professors, all under a sea of a floating candles which were, in turn, under the cosmic expanse of the night sky. Tom had never seen so many stars before, studding the inky darkness like diamonds. He had a vague memory of Hermione reading to him, explaining that the ceiling _was_ there, merely bewitched, but the effect was still astounding.

It took a long moment to tear his eyes from the sight and consider the rest of the Hall. Really, though, it was such a marvelous contrast from Wool's and boring, old London—everywhere he looked there was rich colour and warmth. Hogwarts was fairly _bursting_ with new sensory experiences. There were more students than he'd imagined however, a hundred or two at every table, and it was an effort to keep his inherent resentment of them from showing—he doubted any of them had been made to endure eleven years of forced exile.

The incoming students were paraded to the front of the Hall, where Dumbledore waited for them upon a raised dais. He threw his arms wide as they crowded around, and beamed at them reassuringly. "Welcome, First Years, to your Sorting Ceremony, the beginning of many fine traditions you will experience here at Hogwarts! To truly become a part of the school, you must be sorted into one of the four Houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin—your new home away from home."

Tom found his attention waning as the Professor launched into a speech about House points. It was a simple merit system; honestly, what was there to explain? Instead, he let his eyes slide along the staff table. They looked capable enough, certainly more competent than his old schoolmaster had been—although they were, by and large, clearly bored and impatient for the feast to begin—however, he had to restrain himself from forming premature opinions. How they handled the classroom would be the real test of their worth.

"But, first," Dumbledore bellowed, redrawing Tom's attention, "the Ceremony." He gestured to the rickety stool beside him and, with a great lurch, the tattered hat upon it sprang to life.

It sang a rather saccharine little tune about the qualities that each House prized, and for the first time Tom found himself wondering where he might end up. Hufflepuff and Gryffindor were definitely out, as neither one interested him in the least. Loyalty was earned and bravery didn't seem like the sort of thing to base an entire academic career upon. Ravenclaw sounded fairly decent, if a bit ordinary. There was the potential to find like-minded individuals there, but all that knowledge was useless if it was never applied to a goal. Slytherin, though… Slytherin held his attention—cunning, ambition, and a serpentine emblem? It couldn't have been a better fit if he'd designed it himself.

Dumbledore took out a thick scroll of parchment and began to call out names, one by one. Each student took their turn with the Hat, some needing only seconds while others took long minutes, but the Hat sorted everyone dutifully. It felt like ages before Dumbledore finally said, "Riddle, Tom."

He strode to the hat with a calmness he didn't quite feel. The outcome of this sorting could have very real repercussions; it could, in essence, decide some small portion of his fate. But those worries slipped from his mind as the enchanted cloth fluttered down over his eyes. There was a soothing nature to the Sorting Hat, even as it produced a sensation like a gentle tapping at the back of his skull.

' _You have an organized mind, a desperation for knowledge,'_ a quiet voice whispered into his thoughts, startling Tom. ' _Ravenclaw would serve you well, if not for your power lust.'_ The Hat gave a knowing chuckle. ' _You've snakes on the brain, young man, and I daresay Slytherin in your blood.'_

That puzzled him, made his heart beat wildly. ' _What do you mean?'_

' _Your ambition will carry you far and Slytherin could aid that journey.'_

' _Are you being purposefully obtuse?'_ He held in a sneer, though he was quite sure the Hat could sense it either way. ' _What do you mean, it's in my blood?'_

But the Hat did not deign to answer him, instead proclaiming, ' _It's fate, you know. There's really no choice at all. It must be—'_ "SLYTHERIN!"

There were a few unenthusiastic claps from the Slytherin table, but on the whole they appeared confused or, as in a few cases, outright disdainful. Somehow, something about Tom had already managed to offend them. He picked his way over to the table decked out in green and silver, taking a seat next to a boy who appeared more curious than affronted.

To his surprise, the boy immediately leaned close and whispered, "Strange, the Hat putting you with us. Are you a muggleborn?"

"No," Tom lied—although it _could_ be the truth; the Hat seemed to have been implying that someone in his family had also once been a Slytherin. If only it had been considerate enough to supply a name as well.

"It's just…" The boy paused, choosing his words carefully, "Riddle's not exactly a familiar name, if you take my meaning."

Tom shrugged, falling back on the haughty attitude that had gotten him through life at Wool's. "Might not be my real name, seeing as I'm an orphan." That was definitely a lie; he knew for a fact that he was named after his father.

The feast began in the midst of their conversation. Platters with food the likes of which Tom had never even imagine before appeared up and down the table with startling abruptness. His companion, however, was clearly used to this sight and held the thread of their discussion without pause.

"Oh," he winced, "that's unfortunate." Yet, despite that proclamation, he continued in a rather friendly air, "You know, you should get an Inheritance Test done at Gringotts—it's dashed expensive, but they can map out your bloodline going back for centuries." His dark gaze flit through their fellow Slytherins knowingly. "It can be helpful to have a few notorious relatives to throw out into conversations every now and again. I'm Andrus Lestrange, by the way, Second Year."

Tom considered Lestrange for a long moment—he was a stocky boy with dark features and darker hair, yet an incongruous geniality. His face was pleasant mask, but a mask all the same, belied only by the calculating glitter in his eyes; he saw something in the younger boy, though it was unclear what precisely that was.

Before his silence could become any more protracted, Tom asked, "You have a lot of these relatives to show off with?" Because it very suddenly occurred to him that he knew _nothing_ about the social structure at Hogwarts, and that put him at a distinct disadvantage.

"Well, anymore, most of the Pureblood families are related to each other in some way or another—at least, the important ones are," Andrus shrugged. "The Lestranges are one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight; we've got ties to the Blacks, the Flints, the Malfoys, the Prewitts, you name it. It can cause a bit of a headache sometimes, but I don't envy you your position."

Tom didn't bother asking what the Sacred Twenty-Eight was, but made a note to look that up later in private. Instead he stared down at his plate and angrily realized, "I've no history to invoke." At least, not any that he was aware of.

Reality crashed into him in sickly waves; in his desperation to escape the orphanage, to claim his birthright, he'd failed to truly consider what world he might be stepping into. Access to Hermione's time, to her knowledge of his own era, had given him false expectations. A part of Tom had simply assumed that everything would fall into place—he would continue to prove just as proficient at magic as always and that proficiency would pave his way toward becoming a Dark Lord—completely failing to take the social aspect into consideration. He had not prepared himself for the climate of Slytherin House, and that thought burned him up; a _stupid_ oversight when he knew he was capable of being so much more meticulous.

After a deep breath, he forced himself to assess his housemates as he might any passing body back in London. What he saw was the ghost of Wool's staring him in the face: angry, duplicitous, _cruel_ children. And though the elite of Slytherin clearly banked on power, it was of a different sort than that favour by the orphanage. In London he'd merely had to be strong; here there were machinations at play that he didn't yet fully understand, and he possessed no familial ties to ease his way. Once more, he was a pauper amongst kings.

It was a bitter revelation, made all the more shocking because he'd become so complacent. No one crossed him at Wool's, hadn't in ages—he was the undisputed ruler of the play-yard. But this _wasn't_ the play-yard. No one here knew him or what he could do, and there was no reason to assume they'd be impressed even if they did— _everyone_ at the school had magic. His one true ounce of leverage was gone! He'd been thrust into a hierarchy he could only guess at without the benefit of his usual advantage. In London he'd been a tyrant; here at Hogwarts he would have to climb his way up from the very bottom, armed with little more than his wits and ambition.

Lestrange did nothing to sugar-coat that realisation, nailing it down in so many words, "You're going to have a hard time getting any of the Slytherins to take you seriously."

Tom felt himself flushing an angry red, confrontational now that he knew what a disadvantage he was at. "Then why are _you_ talking to me?"

"Dumbledore looked particularly interested in your sorting," Lestrange replied easily. "Call me crazy, but he always seems to be throwing himself into the thick of it—his interest in you probably means something."

"Fantastic," he bit out angrily. The last thing he wanted was extra attention from a man he had already deemed potentially dangerous. For that matter, until he was on better footing, he didn't want much of anyone's attention and didn't mind telling Andrus so. "You're probably better off not talking to me much, you know; an extensive family history won't always be able to save you from _questionable_ acquaintances."

"You catch on quick, and you're a forward thinker," Lestrange smiled. "We could really use some more of that in Slytherin. Seriously, get the Inheritance Test done—the sooner you've got a bit of clout to work with, the sooner you can make your mark."

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, torn between excitement and worry as she waited for the Sorting Ceremony to end. She held a quiet conversation with Percy—a Prefect who bore such a striking similarity to Ron Weasley that she knew right away they must be brothers—and though his tone was a bit pompous, he seemed happy to answer all her questions. It was refreshingly easy to talk to him, though she couldn't quite stop herself from sneaking surreptitious glances around the Hall, searching for that familiar, tidy sweep of black hair. There were fewer than a hundred students at every table, yet Tom was nowhere to be found.

She'd scoured the train high and low but her friend had simply not been aboard it, nor had he been present in any of the boats on the way to the castle, and now he was conspicuously absent from the start of term feast. In fact, Professor McGonagall—nearing the end of the alphabet already—had blithely skipped past his name, as if no one called Davies had _ever_ been on her list. What on earth was going on? Where could Tom be? He'd _promised_ they'd be at Hogwarts together! She would write him a letter first thing in the morning to find out what was going on. Could owls find someone without a known address?

With that determination made, Hermione did her best to simply enjoy the feast. The other First Years around her were amiable enough, although she could tell that Ron was still set against her, and so she spent much of the evening in discussion with Percy. Once or twice, Neville caught her eye and flashed her a timid smile, renewing her hope for making friends; he, at least, seemed to like her.

Eventually the meal drew to a close. One last round of announcements and reminders was given before the Prefects began leading First Years to their Houses. Hogwarts was a bigger school than she'd imagined for so few students, full of twisting passages and confounding corridors. Finding the Gryffindor common room appeared hard enough that Hermione was almost stricken when Percy offhandedly mentioned that the staircases _moved_. How was she meant to get anywhere on her own when the architecture routinely rearranged itself? A sick knot formed in her stomach, suddenly terrified that she might end up _late_ for her first lessons. Percy seemed to have the hang of the untrustworthy layout, though—perhaps there was a pattern to the movements—and before long he had all the First Years gathered around a painting that he referred to as the Fat Lady. With practised ease he gave the password, the portrait swinging forward to reveal a secret entrance. They were quickly ushered through, shown around the common room and then directed to their dormitories.

The girls' dorm was up a few flights of spiral stairs; Gryffindor had to be in one of the many towers, now that she thought about it. Their room was a circular affair, giant four-poster beds set along the perimeter, an enclosed fireplace in the center. Each of the five beds had one of their trunks laid out at its foot, along with new scarves and ties to reflect their House colours.

There were four other Gryffindor girls starting their First Year—Lavender, Parvati, Fay, and Kate—and though they were all exhausted from their long day, the girls chatted excitedly for quite some time. Hermione did her best to join in, but found she had little to say about fashion or wizarding celebrities. She went to bed before the others, pulling her curtains tight, but even through the heavy velvet she heard their whispered giggles.

"Did you see her _hair_?"

"Did _you_ see her _teeth_?"

Hermione squeezed her eyes tight and rolled over, doing her best to ignore them. It wasn't as if she hadn't heard those insults before, but it still stung. Hogwarts wasn't exactly shaping up to be what she'd expected. A part of her had hoped the students here would be infinitely more like herself—bookish and just generally different—but so far they weren't all that dissimilar from the sort of people she'd gone to primary school with. Excepting Neville and Percy, of course.

Tomorrow, she hoped firmly, would be different. Tomorrow, she would fit in—or find her wayward friend, whichever came first.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Hogwarts, everyone. We've hit the real meat of our story at last!
> 
> Sorry for the protracted absence there; like I mentioned in a few of the other chapter notes, the winter just generally isn't an easy time for me to write. Plus this chapter dealt with so much canon exposition that I really had to step back and think about what was necessary to include.
> 
> Anyway, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to AlexOdair, Jayenn, 48isaliferuiner, Azhwi, earedein, Niabiaxmoi, crow, Angrypixels, reeroy, frak-all (or_ryn), and Miss_Vixen for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	11. He Is Alone

Chapter Eleven: He Is Alone

_Hogwarts, 1938_

Tom awoke customarily early and spent some time making sure that his uniform was just so. His classmates had proven indifferent at best, but he still had a chance to impress his professors and he intended to take full advantage. Having never worn one before, his tie proved somewhat difficult to tame, but once he had that down and tucked beneath his vest, he thought he looked rather sharp. Everything was neatly in place; not even Mrs. Cole would be able to find fault in his appearance.

Thoughts of the Matron had his lips pulling into a frown. She had been easy to handle, easier to subvert, but his experiences with her had provided him with no useful insight in how to handle his professors. For starters, he'd never once cared what she thought about him so long as she didn't try to have him carted off. And, for another, he'd never strictly wanted anything from her, other than perhaps to be left alone. The same could not be said about his professors; they possessed knowledge and skill-sets that he was eager to develop. There was only so much that could be learned from a book after all, eventually an expert was required. A part of Tom knew that they were obligated to teach him to the best of their abilities, yet he still wanted to impress upon them how capable of a student he truly was. If he _gave_ a little—earned high marks and mastered the course material quickly—then he might _get_ a little—well-deserved praise, perhaps even a few extracurricular lessons. Unfortunately, that wasn't something that could be bullied out of them, not like the way he'd handled Mrs. Cole. For the first time in his life, Tom knew he had to be on his best behaviour or he could very well cut off valuable relationships before they even had the chance to develop. He'd made a miscalculation of some sort during his introduction to Professor Dumbledore, if the man's supposed interest meant anything; he could not allow the same to happen with any of the other professors.

With that final thought, Tom quietly made his way out of the dormitory and up to the common room—no one else seemed to be awake yet, though he rather suspected that some of the more diligent upperclassmen had already made their way to the Great Hall to await breakfast—so he took a moment to study the room unobserved. Slytherin House was not only located in the dungeons, but was submerged under the Black Lake as well. The thick, leaded windows streamed an eerie green light, shadows gliding by as creatures unknown swam through the murky depths. There was a large fireplace that did its best to throw heat around the room, tinted lanterns and lamps providing more even lighting. The furniture, a series of fainting sofas, tall-backed armchairs, and thick looking tables, were all made of dark, glossy woods with green leather accents. Here and there, a silver tapestry hung upon the cold stone walls, adding a splash of light into the unrelenting darkness. The overall impression left by the common room was like a cross between a sunken pirate ship and a gambling den.

Slytherin was not so ostentatiously decorated as he might have guessed. The way his housemates had carried themselves suggested nobility, but these were far from the quarters one would expect of aristocracy. Though not barren by any stretch of the imagination, the common room provided little diversion from the heavy reality of dungeon stone. In fact, there was only one painting in the whole room, just above the fireplace—not of their founder, strangely, but of his chosen emblem instead: a milky-yellow python draped serenely over a tree branch.

The snake eyed him reproachfully, spitting out, " _You! There were whispers of your ignoble name last night."_ It reared in indignation. " _Such filth in my halls, it's an embarrassment!"_

Tom heard footsteps approaching and so gave no indication of understanding the serpent, just as he hadn't the night before when it had whispered amusingly nasty things to the new students. One of the Prefects stumbled across the common room, blearily making her way to the exit. She took no notice of the younger boy, but he held his tongue anyway. After Dumbledore's stilted reaction to finding out he was a _Snake-Speaker_ , Tom had decided it would be best to remain quiet about that talent until he could look up some information on those other supposed Parselmouths.

Once the girl was gone and the stone wall closed back around the entrance, he turned his attention to the snake. " _You're quick to pass judgement,"_ he hissed, smiling genially. The python might be rude, but Tom had always enjoyed his conversations with serpents. " _Were you Slytherin's?"_

The snake did a poor job of hiding its surprise, eyes flying open comically wide. Who knew when it had last spoken to anyone? Trying to recover some of its haughty air, it sniffed disdainfully and replied, " _A Slytherin, yes, but not Salazar. He left the school in a snit, you know. However, his descendents were happy to return."_ The way the creature eyed him—as if he were mere pestilence undeserving of even that attention—told Tom well enough how it felt about him. Parselmouth or not, the python considered him no more qualified to reside in Slytherin than a louse. " _It was their birthright, after all."_

" _But not mine?"_ He quirked a brow cooly. Snakes were usually drawn to him, could somehow tell what he was and how he might be able to help them, but the painting clearly did not share this talent.

" _You haven't blood enough!"_ It bellowed savagely, then quickly subdued itself. After a long pause it tried to taste the air, continuing, " _And yet…"_

Tom allowed himself a knowing smile and guessed, " _I am a Snake-Speaker."_

" _Mind you,"_ the python hedged, seeming reluctant to assign him any admirable qualities, " _I'm not a real snake."_

He bit out a cruel laugh, sarcasm lacing his tone as he asked, " _I'm faking it, then? We're having a perfectly intelligible conversation in the serpent-tongue completely by chance?"_

" _Point taken,"_ it replied resignedly, knowing it was backed into a corner. For a brief second it allowed itself to look at him favourably. " _There's something strangely familiar about you, boy."_

He edged closer to the fireplace, curious what this snake that wasn't really a snake might be able to tell him about the school, or perhaps even his own family. Was it possible that they had been Parselmouths too? " _The Sorting Hat mentioned that Slytherin was in my blood, whatever that means."_

" _That self-important scrap of fluff?!"_ The python reared back, once more in an angry lather.

He smiled lightly, happy to hear someone maligning the less than helpful headpiece. " _Not friends then, are you?"_

It fixed Tom with a deathly glare. " _He's a charleton! All that singing about the Founders' legacy and what they prized, but he mostly just puts students where they ask to go."_ The snake stared around the common room despairingly, as if remembering different times, then said softly, " _It's been an age since proper cunning has walked through the Halls of Slytherin. And all because that glory hound is too lazy to do his job! You'll be no different; no doubt you asked to be here, the same as anyone else!"_

The painting was back to being difficult, but he found he didn't mind so much. It wasn't as if it could talk to anyone about him—except for other snakes perhaps, and real ones had always been naturally inclined to enjoy his presence. " _It was the more favourable outcome of my choices but, no, I did not ask."_

" _Ha,"_ it snapped, fangs flashing in the low light, " _you're a Ravenclaw if ever I saw one!"_

His expression went blank. " _You've a sharp tongue, little snake,"_ he told it in warning, suddenly finding himself in a far less indulgent mood. " _Be careful that you do not upset the wrong predator."_

But the snake was unimpressed, rolling its eyes in a very human gesture. " _Oh, so you think you can prove me wrong?"_

Tom smiled—wide, twisted, a touch feral—and whispered conversationally, " _There are so many ways for a painting to get damaged, you know. A little too much heat and your paint would crack and peel, or too much damp and you'd moulder straight out of your pretty frame."_ He ran one pale, long finger down the gilded edge in question, and the python shivered as if he'd stroked along its spine. " _What would happen to you then, I wonder? Do paintings have souls, or do you simply cease to be?"_ His black eyes drilled into it heartlessly for a long moment. Then he shrugged casually and flashed it a conspirator's smile, saying, " _Besides, think of it this way: mis-sort or not—and I'm telling you right now that I am not—you'd have precious little company without me."_

His threat clearly made the serpent wary, yet it still hissed out, " _And I'm supposed to be grateful for that—for the companionship of a suspected Mudblood?"_

He was unfamiliar with the term, but it was rather self-explanatory. His cheeks flushed an angry red at the slur, but he managed to keep his growing temper in check. Loftily he replied, " _Sometimes the status quo must be upset in order to achieve progress. You wanted cunning back in the Halls of Slytherin?"_ He bowed deeply, self-important if just a touch mocking. " _Well here I am. Or would you rather go back to your unambitious Purebloods, whose greatest contributions to the wizarding world are simply to have been born?"_

The snake elected not to answer, quickly slithering out of its frame before he could get another word in.

Tom grit his teeth and silently admitted that this was an inauspicious start to his new life. Despite Dumbledore's brief lecture on the subject, he'd failed to take into account how important an issue blood purity truly appeared to be. Then again, coming from such humble means, perhaps he'd been willingly blind to the subject. It was a mistake that would take time to rectify—he was positive that there was wizarding history in his family, he just had to find the connection. Until then, there was little else he could do on that front other than endure the disdain and ridicule of his peers. He wasn't particularly worried, he'd just add it to their tally of sins. In the meantime, he had so find some way of connecting to the student body, if only so that his professors didn't think there was something _wrong_ with him. The last thing he needed was the entire staff rallying under Dumbledore's banner; he had to divide at least some of them into his favour.

But first, he would visit Hermione. He wondered how she was getting along; if, coming from a muggle family, she was facing the same hardships as he. Once more, he was frustrated that he could not carry her into his own time—at least then they would have been truly together.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Hermione bit her lip nervously, clutching her letter tight as she scurried through the corridors. She hoped to find the owlery soon; dawn was only just beginning to spill through the tall windows, but she didn't wish to be late for breakfast or, heaven forbid, her very first lesson. Hogwarts was a sprawling nightmare of interchangeable halls and twisting pathways, and though she was certain she'd get the hang of it before long, her current uncertainty had her breaking out in a cold sweat. No one else seemed to be up just yet, save the odd cat or ghost; even the portraits were sleeping in their frames. Turned around as she was, she wished _someone_ would cross her path—at this point, she'd even be grateful to see Filch, the mean-looking caretaker.

Just as she thought that, a ghost slid through the wall ahead of her. She remembered him from last night—the House ghost of Hufflepuff. He was a small, round fellow, rather pleasant and jovial for being so long dead. Perhaps that was simply the nature of a Hufflepuff, or the Friar was truly just that kindhearted. Either way, he was only too happy to direct her, floating off serenely before she had a chance to ask if he might _show_ her the way instead. The dead clearly no longer understood the trials of being alive, she thought exasperatedly.

Hermione continued determinedly on her way, but just as she was passing a colourful tapestry depicting one of the Goblin Wars, her plans were derailed. A hand shot out from the shadows, drawing her in past the tapestry. There was an alcove behind the heavy curtain of fabric, small and darkish, but despite the poor lighting she could tell who had pulled her in. It was an effort to cut off her instinctual shriek—she didn't think Tom would appreciate the sudden burst of noise in such close quarters.

He smiled at her winningly, looking a touch more relieved than she thought he ever had before. She was so happy to see him, so happy to have her immediate fears put to rest, that she hugged him straight away. It was funny though, he usually stiffened at the contact before gradually loosening up. However, today he reciprocated almost immediately, holding her tight for a long moment before eventually reclaiming his customary distance.

Her joy faded with every inch he slid back, curiosity and a touch of anger taking its place. "Where were you yesterday?" She demanded hotly, tucking her now useless letter into a pocket. "I walked up and down the train twice, but you were nowhere to be seen. And then during the Sorting Ceremony…" Hermione abruptly cut herself off, catching a flash of green in the low light. Squinting, she truly took him in for the first time. Crisp shirt, wool pants, vest—grey coat?—outer robes, _green and silver tie_. "You're a Slytherin."

"You sound surprised," he drawled, quirking a dark brow at her.

She snorted. "I can't say I am, actually." He certainly had that streak of cunning, that touch of moral carelessness in the face of his own desires. While she hesitated to put him on the same level as the Slytherins she'd met yesterday, she had to admit that no other House really would have done him justice. Still, a part of her had hoped he might have found his way to Ravenclaw, as he was certainly clever enough—a hypocritical thing to say since she herself had requested Gryffindor.

Tom's long fingers reached out, gently pulling at her tie. "I had you pegged for Ravenclaw," he admitted, running his thumb over her bright red and gold stripes.

"The Hat considered it." She batted his hands away, straightening her uniform.

He smirked, a strangely bitter little quirk of his lips, and sarcastically announced, "Well aren't we the strange pair?"

Hermione eyed him critically. He was disappointed—in her or himself?—and she wanted to ask him what was wrong, but not before her initial curiosities had been laid to rest. "Aren't you going to answer my question?" She needled, doing her best to keep her temper down before she'd heard his explanation—no doubt there was a perfectly logical reason for his late arrival. "Where were you? I was worried sick!"

His dark eyes flashed coldly, amused at her expense, though he tried to hide it behind a friendly smile. "Remember when I told you you'd notice something off once we got to Hogwarts?"

She frowned, already not pleased with where this was heading. "Yes."

"Congratulations," he sang, smile widening.

Hermione grit her teeth and flushed an angry red, her uncomplimentary thoughts from yesterday coalescing into a deep ire. "Sometimes you are _absolutely infuriating_ to be around," she told him, thinking of all the times he'd said one thing but done another; all the times he'd casually done something that belied the idea they were truly friends. Or the way she'd justified his actions, explained everything away because of his poor circumstances—a habit he'd clearly not only come to expect but was also actively exploiting. "I am still deeply upset by the fact that you lied to me for three straight years—and now you're making _jokes_ about it? What's to stop me from just walking away, Tom?" She pulled back the tapestry to demonstrate her willingness to do just that.

He smiled indulgently, apparently having decided she was bluffing. "Your curiosity," he replied lightly before catching sight of her expression. She must have looked fierce and thunderous, because his own face went studiously blank as he tried to explain himself, "I would hope that three years of steady companionship would stay that impulse. I dug a hole for myself," his expression shifted, eyes going soft and wide in what she thought might be a calculated effort at pleading, "I understand that and I _am_ sorry—"

"I wish you wouldn't say that," she snapped, interrupting him, "you never mean it."

For once, Tom appeared flabbergasted. "What?"

"You offer apologies like they're talismans, like their mere presence will make everything better. Slap a few platitudes on it and everything's fixed." She gave a heavy sigh, tired suddenly and sad that they were having this conversation at all. "But then you always go and do the exact same thing again—so either you completely fail to learn from your mistakes or you're not actually sorry."

He frowned, upset, maybe even genuinely wounded, and took a step closer. "Where is all this coming from?"

"You hurt me, and you're continuing to lie to me even though it would be easiest to tell the truth," she pointed out, trying to push him back. "Do you honestly expect me to take that in stride and be _happy_ to see you? What do you take me for, some sort of toadying pushover?"

"You're angry with me," he realised, sounding perversely surprised.

Hermione felt like exploding. "How can you have _only just_ realised that?" She moved to hit his shoulder—not her proudest moment, but her anger had filled her with restless energy. "You're so clever, and yet so blind!"

Tom caught her wrists up easily, gathering her close as he confessed, "I thought our friendship would get us through this." His words sounded desperately lost, blindsided by her temper.

But for once, she refused to relent. "You're the one who put that in jeopardy!"

"It's been a month since I told you about my secret," he snapped, his own temper moving to meet hers, "why are you angry _now_?" Then, as if only just realising what she'd said, his grip on her tightened and he asked with eerie calmness, "Are you saying we're not friends anymore?"

She tried to jerk away from him, but his hold was relentless—not tight per se, but certainly implacable. Her useless efforts only served to make her more angry. "I've tried not to be upset," she explained hotly, "to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you just get me so _frustrated_ sometimes and you don't even seem to understand _why_ I'm offended!"

"Hermione," he shook her carefully, strangely gentle even though she could see the livid flush staining his cheeks, "are you telling me that you're walking away from this friendship?"

"Not yet," she told him baldly. "Maybe not ever, but it would be a lie to say that I actually want to see you right now."

Something moved in his dark eyes at those words, something lonely and forgotten—a window opened, a vulnerability unintentionally revealed. There was a painful sense of desolation in his voice as he whispered, "That's hurtful."

But she was beyond caring about his feelings at this moment. A bitter blackness was tearing at her thoughts, a desire to hurt him in the same way he'd hurt her with his lie. She did her best to mimic his bearing and tone as she offered one of his insincere apologies back at him. The simple, "Sorry," she drawled out was cutting for all its emptiness.

Tom let go of her as if burned, stepping away as his expression went terrifyingly cold. "Fine then," he replied acerbically, the spirit of a thousand bitter winters lacing his words. "Wish granted, but just remember it was you who wanted this!" And before she could even react to that proclamation, he was gone.

Hermione didn't usually think of herself as the sort that had to have the last word in an argument—in fact, she very much went out of her way not to have arguments at all—but his abrupt departure did nothing to sooth her temper. It wasn't until sometime later during breakfast, when he was once more conspicuously absent from the Great Hall, that she wondered at his strange choice of parting words. She'd assumed that he'd meant he was going to ignore her for a while, not outright disappear again. He couldn't avoid lessons though; eventually, they would have a class together. Perhaps by then they'd both be in the mood to communicate a little more reasonably.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two young titans butt heads at long last! Classes haven't even begun and Hogwarts is already putting them to the test.
> 
> As always, my everlasting gratitude to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to ArchiveIlana, Jayenn, Rammy (ramofpride), earedien, Azhwi, and FreyaFallen for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	12. He Is Determined

Chapter Twelve: He Is Determined

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Despite her early misgivings, Hogwarts followed an ebb and flow that Hermione quickly found herself adapting to. True, there were hazards—she'd had to tell off one particular broom cupboard for constantly trying to convince her it was the Charms classroom, not to mention that running into Peeves the poltergeist could ruin her whole day—but the staircases generally followed a set rhythm and the coats of armour proved very helpful, if she asked them sweetly enough. She still found herself lost on occasion, but it was not quite so terrifying an ordeal as she'd originally assumed. As long as she made it to her lessons on time, Hermione actually found she _enjoyed_ getting a bit lost. The castle was monstrously huge and full of interesting little detours that most new students didn't take notice of; there were trophy rooms, portrait galleries, even a quiet little reading room on the opposite side of the castle from the Library.

The Library was, by far, her favourite place in the whole school. It occupied a colossal hall with grand, vaulted ceilings to accommodate the impossibly tall shelves. There were more books there than she figured she could read in two lifetimes, but she was very keen to test the idea. She'd found herself in the Library quite a lot, even in the first few days of classes; it was a convenient reprieve from her fellow First Years.

Hermione had tried to put her best foot forward, but it seemed that the other Gryffindor girls were impossible to please. They nattered on about boys and musicians and celebrities she'd never even heard of—if they'd cared about their studies at all she might have stood a chance of impressing them, but their heads were full of fluff. And the boys were no better, really; it was all sports and complicated games with them. Neville was the only one who seemed to welcome her, often taking the seat beside her during lessons, though a part of her felt that perhaps he did it more to take advantage of her knowledge and help than anything else. She couldn't fault him for it—it was a decent friend-making strategy when she mulled the idea over, because they certainly had gotten to know each other a bit—especially since he wasn't the only one doing it. Harry, whether through chance or design, often sat beside her as well. She had a sneaking suspicion he appreciated the fact that she didn't spend time blatantly staring at his scar the way other students did. And, though he didn't need her help with classwork as often as Neville, he always appeared grateful for it, which was more than she could say for any of the other First Year students.

She'd heard more than her fair share of snide comments and disparaging nicknames to understand that her intelligence was increasingly intimidating to them. Even a _Ravenclaw_ had accused her of being a know-it-all! Ron, in particular, seemed the most intolerant and, unfortunately, where Harry went Ron followed. The two were inseparable. Not that she _wanted_ to separate them—her dearest wish was merely to join them!—but she would if she had to, if the redhead continued being so stubborn about her. She was determined to be their friend because she knew, deep down, that if Weasley would just give her a chance he'd really like her, that the three of them together could be something special. Ron, however, seemed just as determined to pretend she was a nuisance, even though her quick answers were earning points for Gryffindor faster than his older brothers were losing them.

While her peers didn't exactly make her feel welcome in the classroom, the lessons themselves were exciting and most of her professors seemed to enjoy her enthusiasm quite a lot. In fact, it wasn't until her first Potions lesson that she encountered a teacher who _disliked_ her.

The Friday in question was a dreary day, but Hermione had been looking forward to it since first reading her schedule. Double Potions was the only class that First Year Gryffindors shared with Slytherin. True to his word, she'd seen neither hide nor hair of Tom in several days, but he would _have_ to attend Potions. While not particularly sorry for his absence, as she was still quite furious with him, a part of her wanted to see how Tom was getting along on his first week.

But the contrary boy wasn't there.

She'd gone down to the dungeons early, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but as the minutes had ticked by she'd become increasingly anxious. By the time Snape swept grandly into the classroom, her heart had sunk and she knew that Tom wasn't going to show up; a risky move, considering that Snape was his Head of House. Hermione thought this was particularly out of character for Tom—while his temper sometimes made him act rashly, he'd never been one to miss an opportunity to learn. Her confusion only increased when Snape skipped straight over Davies when calling roll. She thought perhaps that Tom must have already spoken with the Professor about his absence, but then she noticed something funny: the classroom was exactly full, there wasn't a single extra workspace for one more student.

Was Tom not a First Year? Was that what he'd lied about—that he was _already_ a student at Hogwarts? But no, she knew for a fact that he wouldn't have been able to resist showing off his Letter or his wand. And if he'd known Grade One spells he probably would have taught them to her just to see if she could do any of it.

The thought was gradually lulled out of her head by Snape. He spoke quietly, but with great authority. His tone was almost insidious for the hold it had upon his students. The man himself, however, left a lot to be desired. True to the whispered rumours she'd heard, Professor Snape turned a blind eye to his own House and had it out for everyone else. Less than ten minutes into the lesson, she had to add _bully_ to his growing list of character defects. Because that's what he was doing, really—this full grown man, old enough to be their father, was relentlessly belittling Harry for no discernible reason.

Harry, for his part, suffered through the rapid fire questions with in complete confusion, carefully trying to hide how flustered the Slytherins' mean-spirited snickering was making him.

Snape tutted theatrically, though it was clear that this show was for no one's benefit other than his own. With a falsely pitying look directed at Harry, he asked, "Tell me, Potter, what is the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?" It was his third successive question and there didn't seem to be any end to the humiliation in sight. It was cruel to expect so much of the average First Year—doubly cruel since Snape clearly _didn't_ expect him to know any of it.

Harry took the targeted venom in stride, calm in the face of such adversity, but she could see the embarrassed flush creeping up the back of his neck. Hermione felt herself growing red in sympathy. While not affectionate per se, Harry _had_ been warming up to her and was certainly nicer to her than just about any of the other students; he didn't deserve this sort of treatment.

Hermione had always held authority figures in a certain amount of reverence. Teachers in particular had her immediate respect—it had to be difficult to be both skilled and capable of imparting that knowledge to others—and she'd often gone out of her way to express just how _deeply_ that respect ran. But as she stared at Professor Snape's tight, twisting smirk, she found her well had at last run dry.

Before Harry's bewildered, awkward silence could stretch any longer, she burst out in answer, "There isn't one." Neville went very still beside her, likely not wanting to attract any attention.

And rightly so, because Snape whirled on her immediately, his dark robes flaring out like bat wings. "Unless Mr. Potter is having an out of body experience," he hissed viciously, black eyes glittering with menace, "I believe you've just lost Gryffindor two points for speaking out of turn, Miss Granger!"

Hermione cringed inwardly. She knew the rest of Gryffindor would be upset, and she didn't want her other professors to think she was some kind of blatantly rude upstart. However, it wasn't all that bad, when she reflected on it. In the end, what were a few points? She had already earned far more than that during the first week of lessons! Surely no one would begrudge her two measly points, particularly not from Snape who was quite infamous for going out of his way to harass Gryffindors.

Besides, her show of defiance had the desired effect: Snape finally abandoned his pursuit of Harry, who flashed her a thankful smile when their Professor's back was turned. In truth, a number of Gryffindor students looked momentarily impressed by her nerve.

The lesson dragged on for an interminably long time, and by the end of it she felt stretched thin. Neville had kept her on her toes the whole class: jittery, restless hands trying to add the wrong ingredients whenever she wasn't looking. It took a lot of effort to keep him from accidentally melting his own cauldron. Snape certainly didn't help matters, hovering behind his students and finding any reason to make a nasty remark. In fact, by the time the First Years shuffled out of the dungeon everyone, save Draco Malfoy, felt as if they'd been cut down to size.

Hermione had a mind to recuperate in the peaceful solitude of the Library when she heard someone call her name.

It was Harry and his redheaded shadow. "Would you like to have tea with us?" He asked, sounding uncertain—as if he might not really want to be talking to her.

She was so taken aback by his invitation that all she managed in reply was an inarticulate, "What?"

"We're going to Hagrid's for tea and I thought…" Harry fidgeted, stumbling over his words. "Because of what you did for me back there…"

"You wanted to say thank you," she realised.

He looked relieved that she understood. "Yes."

He was inviting her to hangout—out of gratitude, yes, but it was still something. The circumstances could have been better, but this was an opportunity she would not let slip by.

Ron, for his part, looked as if he'd bit into a lemon, but for once he held his tongue.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1938_

Tom had not particularly gone out of his way to learn the course material prior to the start of term, but he had been curious to experiment, and the things he'd tried he remembered well. In addition to that, he'd always been something of a quick study so he found himself well equipt to handle his first week of lessons. He often had the answer to a tricky question and was almost always the first student to complete his work—in fact, in both Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms, the professors had asked him to help some of the more struggling students. While he was usually loathe to waste his time on those who were clearly undeserving of it, he found himself appreciating this task. The name Riddle might not mean anything to them yet, but the tutor that helped them pass their classes had the opportunity to make an impression. What he lacked in blood connections he could make up for in favours. It was difficult to smile at the dunderheads he was asked to help, but the reward was worth it—not only were they piteously grateful, but his estimation rose sharply in the eyes of the professors.

His fellow Slytherins continued to hold themselves aloof, however; nothing short of notarised documentation would please them. The atmosphere in the common room was the very definition of discomfort. Cold eyes regarded him spitefully whenever he walked by and not a soul spoke to him; Lestrange offered him a sardonic smile every now again, but that was hardly encouraging. In fact, he was ignored so completely in the dungeons that he might as well have been a ghost.

The other Houses—mostly Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff— _had_ noticed him, though. Word had quickly gotten around about the few students he'd helped and it appeared that the rest of the school was stunned. They thought him intriguingly _nice_ for a Slytherin, and he had to admit that it was an interesting idea. How many students could he coax into his debt just by smiling and leading them to the answers they so desperately needed? Would they change their tune when he called in those debts, or would a little bit of charm keep them fooled? Politeness did not come easily to him, friendliness—with one notable exception—was all but an alien concept, but he would practice if necessary, because it was clear that the student body responded to it. London had been a constant power-struggle and the only way to tip the scales in his favour had been through the abundant application of cruelty; Hogwarts would require a far gentler touch. He needed to foster a sense of charisma, something pleasant and compelling, so that his peers would be blind to his true thoughts. That couldn't be too hard, could it? Already, a pair of Ravenclaws had expressed an interest in being friends—he was lukewarm to the idea as he couldn't really see their respective purposes, but he was rather short on acquaintances; relinquishing some of his solitude would simply be part of the bargain.

And if there was one thing Tom currently had an abundance of, it was solitude. It had been mere days since his last trip to the future, but the memory of it left him feeling hollowed out. He missed Hermione, though he didn't dare say it aloud. The admission left a bitter taste in his mouth, because he had the uncomfortable suspicion that she'd been right: he was being cruel to her for no express purpose other than to watch her struggle. It was hard to put himself into her shoes, but he had to concede that if she'd had the nerve to lie like that to him, he would have shouted and raged that she'd betrayed him. He would have made her _beg_ for forgiveness and still held it over her for years—all Hermione had asked of him was that he not make jokes at her expense. And if she was going to made to play his game anyway, if she had the grace not to hurl the word betrayal at him, then hadn't she earned that right? There were people in his own time far more deserving of his ridicule. She had stayed by his side through thick and thin for three years, even though he'd occasionally gone out of his way to be difficult, and he'd not once rewarded her for that loyalty. In fact, he'd shown far more kindness to his idiot classmates than to his one true friend—granted, it was an empty kindness, but it usually was with him. She deserved more, _better_.

Tom ran his fingers over the coloured beads of the bracelet he still wore—it hadn't helped his time-traveling any, but he found he liked having the simple token to remember her by—and thought over the situation carefully. He had always held himself as superior to those around him, and by comparison Hermione was superior to them as well. So then didn't she deserve to be treated as he himself would expect to be treated? Wasn't it her right to be given that respect?

Yet his pride prevented him from apologizing. It was stupid to think that so long as he didn't admit it he wasn't actually wrong, but that was certainly how it felt. Once the words left his lips his sins would be known, weaknesses apparent. If he conceded this issue, what would stop her from _always_ thinking she was in the right? But if he didn't concede, if he held his tongue entirely, was she capable of forgiving him on her own? He'd never seen her so angry and he was fairly certain he didn't want to find out how vengeful she could be when provoked. If he said nothing it would fester between them, taint the whole relationship. Instead of looking pleased to see him—the only person in the world, present or future, who ever was—her eyes would grow distracted and distant; eventually she would pull away, find solace in others, and he would be left _alone_. It was an uncomfortable thought; he was not as accustomed to isolation as he'd once been. And while there did seem to be the opportunity to make new friends, none of them were quite so clever or engaging as Hermione. He would feel her absence keenly; truthfully, he already did.

But could he make himself utter those two little words and _mean_ it? Tom was no stranger to saying, "I'm sorry," but in the privacy of his own thoughts there had always been caveats: "I'm sorry you feel that way," or "I'm sorry the circumstances aren't what you expected," but never "I'm sorry for what I did—I'm sorry I hurt you." And he clearly had; not like the little ways he'd upset her in the past, this time he'd well and truly hurt her feelings. She'd certainly reciprocated the gesture, however. Did that make them even? Should he wait until she was ready to apologize as well? Was this a stalemate, or was his offense the greater of the two?

His thoughts were interrupted by a kindly voice. "You keep an awful lot of your own company, Mr. Riddle."

Tom looked up from his isolated table in the Library, seeing his Head of House approach him. The Potions Master had taken an instant shine to him, though it was unclear if this was because of his performance in class or if it was merely out of pity. He certainly hoped it was the former rather than the latter. "Professor Slughorn," he began, rising from his seat slightly to greet the older man.

But the Professor waved him off and continued, "Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, you know; more time for study, certainly—we're only a week in and I can already tell that you'll prove to be a bright student." He smiled encouragingly, though his next words were anything but. "It does make for a lonely existence, however."

"I'm a bit…" Tom clenched his fists under the table, thinking of all the disgusted glares and strained silences that followed him around the common room. "...at odds with everyone."

Slughorn sat down across from him and folded his potion-stained hands consideringly. "Dumbledore mentioned a friend of yours," he replied blithely. "No chance of reconnecting with her?"

Tom wasn't sure what to feel worse about: the fact that the professors were discussing his lack of a social life or that Dumbledore had remembered their conversation and was on the lookout for the mystery girl. The thought of Dumbledore anywhere near Hermione was disquieting; he could only hope that those knowing eyes took no notice of her in the future. How to explain her absence _here_ though? Thinking quickly, he lied, "She ended up at a different school."

"That's a shame. Still, correspondences can do wonders in keeping a friendship alive," Slughorn encouraged lightly, obviously not as concerned as his compatriot. But for a moment he paused, carefully considering the young boy, and when he spoke again his tone was much more serious, "You are not the first to have trouble finding their niche in Slytherin—it can be an unforgiving House on occasion—but everyone finds their place eventually. These things merely take time."

That was not so soothing a fact as the Professor seemed to think. Tom knew his relationships had to be built and cultivated carefully, that the level of control he desired could not be amassed overnight, but it was difficult to find patience. And it wasn't particularly encouraging that Slytherin House prized the one quality he could not learn or fake. Slughorn had to know what sort of social climate existed in their House, yet he seemed to think there was an opportunity there somewhere. Testing the waters, Tom replied, "I was given to understand that my lack of heritage is a deep mark against me."

" _Nonsense_ ," the Professor insisted. "I've met my fair share of Purebloods who didn't possess even a tenth of the curiosity and ambition of their muggleborn counterparts. And that's what Slytherin is at its core—ambition and the strength of will to see it done. You've just as much right to be here as anyone else."

While somewhat reassuring, the sentiment wasn't exactly helpful; it didn't provide him with any sort of in with his peers. If given the opportunity, Tom was certain that he had more than enough intellect and ambition to impress, but he honestly didn't see that opportunity arising until he could connect himself with an agreeable surname. Unable to suppress that thought, he pointed out, "You're the only one who seems to think so, Sir. All they care about is lineage. How am I meant to get any of them to take me seriously when I don't even know who my family _is_?"

There was a disgustingly pitying look in Slughorn's eyes, but he did not give voice to it. "In time," he replied levely, "they will appreciate you on your own merits."

Unless there were factors at play that he'd failed to take into account, he didn't picture himself being able to build up enough goodwill for that—he could already tell that Slytherins were far more likely to be offended by his high marks, and it wasn't as if he currently had anything else to offer. They'd be far more tolerant if he could connect himself to some kind of legacy; even the shakiest hint of heritage would open a few doors. Tom remembered something then, an empty promise that had the potential to turn useful. He pitched his voice low for Slughorn, just this side of pleading, and murmured, "Professor Dumbledore said it might be possible to search through the school records, to see if I can piece anything together."

Slughorn looked surprised, as if the idea of researching had never even occurred to him. "The Hogwarts Archives are always available," he recovered quickly, "though I caution you not to get your hopes up—they've proven less than helpful to a number of students."

It was not promising to be discouraged so quickly. How useless were the Archives if that was Slughorn's automatic response? What the Professor was likely studiously trying not to mention was that it would be easier to get an Inheritance Test done, like the Lestrange boy had mentioned. Tom couldn't even begin to guess at the cost, but he doubted the few silver Sickles he had leftover from his stipend would be anything close to enough; he'd probably have to save up for longer than it would take him to graduate. If the Archives failed him, he would simply have to find his information elsewhere. "Are there any other records?"

"Restricted archives here and at the Ministry, of course; mountains of information going back centuries or more. However, they are a little more difficult to gain access to," Slughorn replied, and his expression spoke his true thoughts clearly enough: the desires of a lonely orphan were unlikely to gain appropriate permission. "You need to know precisely what you are looking for and there's quite an alarming amount of paperwork to fill out. Why, the official Hogwarts Historian went to double check on some renovation dates and the poor chap was never heard from again!" He chortled, though Tom thought it sounded like a rather grim fate. Seeing the boy's somber expression, Slughorn sighed and told him seriously, "I appreciate that your circumstances are difficult, Mr. Riddle, but my advice is to let _go_ of the past; focus on your studies and you will find your home in Hogwarts soon enough."

But not _Slytherin_ , and that was the one place he truly should have fit in to begin with. Tom didn't care what state the Hogwarts Archives were in, it was the only resource he had available!

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Hagrid had initially frightened Hermione when he'd greeted the First Years coming off the Hogwarts Express. He was a giant of a man, at least twice as tall as her father, with a wild, bushy beard that made him look very fierce. It wasn't until he smiled at her that Friday afternoon that she noticed the kind look on his face and the deep laugh lines around his eyes. Despite his imposing size, Hagrid was a very friendly and gentle person, and though he'd not specifically invited her he was pleased all the same to make her acquaintance. It was refreshing to meet someone who was not immediately put off by her bookishness.

The groundskeeper lived in a cozy wooden hut at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. His home was warm and inviting, full to bursting with bundles of dried herbs and curing meats. Everywhere Hermione looked there were books about exotic animals and strange tools she didn't recognize.

Hagrid handed each of them a massive cup of tea and a lumpy-looking rock cake. The cakes were hard enough to pound nails with, but Hermione didn't wish to appear rude to their host so she made a great show of enjoying them along with Harry and Ron.

Their conversation was a little stilted due to the fact that Ron was not directly talking to her. Harry did his best to bridge the gaps with directed questions, but it had to be obvious to Hagrid that they weren't getting along. It wasn't until Harry began recounting what had happened in Potions that morning that the redhead even looked in her direction.

"Can't believe you interrupted Snape like that," Ron murmured quietly, his tone halfway between amazement and dread.

Hermione shrugged. "Someone had to, otherwise I don't think he ever would have stopped asking Harry questions."

"I know I haven't done anything wrong," Harry looked baffled anew just thinking about it, "but he really seems to _hate_ me."

Hagrid started to become edgy at the turn in conversation—like he agreed but didn't wish to speak ill of a professor. Instead, he awkwardly changed the subject, asking Ron about an older brother who worked with dragons.

Hermione's attention wandered; dragons sounded far too dangerous to get so excited over. She let her eyes rove around Hagrid's cabin once more, lighting momentarily upon a picture of him and a man she assumed must be his father. Hagrid was soft and round in the picture, young enough to be near her own age, yet even then he had already far outgrown his parent. It was a very sweet picture, but unremarkable, and her attention had nearly left it completely when something suddenly clicked into place. Her eyes quickly snapped back to the framed photograph. The young Hagrid was in a Hogwarts uniform, but unlike the one she was wearing Hagrid's also included a blazer under his outer robes—just like Tom had worn.

About a dozen questions sprang to her lips, but she never got the opportunity to ask a single one. Harry had changed the subject to a newspaper clipping he'd spied, which Hagrid evaded talking about entirely, and before long the three First Years found themselves walking back to the castle.

An idea formed at the edge of Hermione's thoughts, but she didn't want to give it any credence before she'd had the chance to thoroughly research the possibility. She didn't like snap judgements, didn't want to risk being wrong. There had to be about a dozen other, more _logical_ explanations as to what was going on with her wayward friend. The idea was completely ludicrous, but somehow it felt inescapable.

What if the reason she couldn't find Tom was because he wasn't some _where_ else, but rather some _when_ else?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's becoming self-aware! Also, Hermione's long-awaited epiphany.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to ArchiveIlana, frak-all (or_ryn), earedien, 1houseofmemories1, Rammy (ramofpride), and Angrypixels for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	13. He Is Frustrated

Chapter Thirteen: He Is Frustrated

_Hogwarts, 1938_

The Hogwarts Archives were set a little apart from the Library. There was a small antechamber behind the restricted section, where guests—though it hardly seemed as if anyone knew it was even there—could sit and read through selected materials. The actual records were kept behind a sealed door; only the Archives' Seneschal had access, and all requests had to be made through her.

The Seneschal was clearly not human, not completely at least. She was a slender creature, with a blueish cast to her skin and the vaguest hint of scales; often hidden under a flowing mane of blond-green hair, her face was pointed and not particularly comely. Her eyes, though—storm-tossed, ocean-dark jewels set deep into her face—were sharp and brutally intelligent, and her voice had a surprisingly melodious pitch to it. Tom was reminded of the mermaids he'd seen swim past the common room windows: not the traditionally beautiful monsters he'd heard stories about, they were more reptilian in appearance. All she was missing was the tail.

Within moments of arriving at the Archives, Tom understood why Slughorn had not been overly optimistic. The requisition process was not so simple as he'd assumed. He could not just go traipsing through the records of former students as he'd hoped, because it was the Seneschal that searched for the materials. Tom had to direct her from afar on what records to pull, a frustrating endeavor when he couldn't even see what his options were. What he wouldn't give for a few minutes of unrestricted access!

His first visit was disappointing, to say the least. A search for his father or anyone else named Riddle had produced one lonely scroll—his own. It had only confirmed what Tom had suspected for several weeks already: his father had likely been a muggle.

He'd had some time to grow accustomed to the idea, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. His best possible outcome at this point was half-blood, something his Slytherin classmates only reluctantly tolerated; he had to hope that his mother's family had been well-known or he didn't see how they'd be able to help him at all. And what if _they_ hadn't attended Hogwarts, either? Would he have to admit he was muggleborn—even though his gut told him he couldn't possibly be? His housemates would brand him a Mudblood if that were true. How could blood purity be so important to them? What did it even matter? Hermione was a muggleborn, and even wandless at eight years old the two of them together had displayed more aptitude and raw talent than any of the current First Year he'd met! True, they both lacked connections, but surely powerful magic was more important than social politics.

Tom had never liked the orphanage, but for one very brief moment he found himself wishing Hogwarts was more like Wool's. The subterfuge necessary in London had been shallow at best, just enough to deny any accountability, and obvious displays of sadism had been his greatest ally. He didn't quite understand these high-society creatures—the threatening undercurrents of violence were all around them yet they greeted one another as dear friends, the truth belied only by their sharp smiles and cold eyes. They treated their surnames like currency, buying and selling acquaintances as they expanded their webs of influence. The person that rose to the top was not necessarily the strongest, merely the best connected. He thought, if given the chance, he might be able to learn their game, match his wits against theirs and _play_ them as they played each other, but he lacked the necessary entrance fee. Until the name Riddle held some weight, all he could do was watch. If his maternal relatives failed to bring anything to the table, he would have no choice but to buy in some other way—become a self-made man, as Slughorn had suggested. A daunting prospect, to be sure, but he refused to be left behind.

His second trip to the Archives yielded better results, but only slightly. Without any hint of a surname, the Seneschal had been obliged to pull the records of anyone named Merope or Marvolo. There were four Meropes, seven Marvolos, and absolutely no similarities in surnames between them. Without much else to aid him, Tom tried using approximate dates to narrow the field. He knew his mother had been quite young when she gave birth, perhaps only a year or two after when she might have graduated. However, none of the four Meropes had been at Hogwarts anywhere between 1915 and 1925. Either Mrs. Cole had remembered her name incorrectly, or his mother had not attended school in Great Britain—or perhaps at all.

The Marvolos were a bit more difficult to sort through as he had no idea how old his grandfather was; that made it trickier to set date limits. Four of them had been born well before the 1800's however, so he could discard them safely. That still left three possible candidates: Marvolo Avolencci, Marvolo Gaunt, and Marvolo Selwyn. All three had been Slytherins, so he had no idea how to classify them any further. The latter two were slightly more favourable, as they had appeared in a Pureblood directory that was quietly circulated around the common room—the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight that Andrus Lestrange had mentioned. But Tom had no way of connecting himself to either name, short of a full genealogical study and he rather doubted that Hogwarts had all the appropriate records for that.

Only two visits in and he'd already reached a dead-end! It was frustrating, to say the least, but with no other information to work with there wasn't any point in going back to the Archives. The Seneschal appeared sad to see him go—she must be a deeply lonely creature to have developed such a quick attachment to a boy that regarded her as little better than background noise. How was it that he could be so successful in gaining the favour of adults, and yet failed so spectacularly with his peers?

Well, not all his peers. The two Ravenclaws seemed quite taken with him; they had moaned up and down how, while certainly cunning, Slytherins were not usually very clever. Tom wasn't sure whether to be flattered that they thought him unique or insulted that they thought so little about his House—then again, he himself thought _quite_ little about his House, so there was no point in defending it. Regardless, the Ravenclaws were decent enough company, they had a certain sharpness of wit he appreciated and they caught on to new ideas very quickly. The only irritating problem he'd encountered so far were their priorities: both of them strictly adhered to their books, more concerned with theory than practical experimentation. He was prepared to admit that theory had its place, but at a certain point one simply had to get their hands dirty; however, no matter how he presented his argument, they failed to understand him. How could two eleven year olds not grasp what he'd _already_ known at eight? Magic could not advance if no one was willing to test its boundaries—Hermione had understood that.

In the stillness of his heart, Tom could admit that he was attempting to use the Ravenclaws to replace Hermione, and it was not at all working. While certainly insightful, his two classmates were all study and no action. They either didn't understand or didn't appreciate application—it was just knowledge for the sake of it. What good was that? Why bother knowing if you didn't intend to act? Hermione was the perfect blend of practicality and reckless abandon: she went to extremes for the sake of learning, but fully knew where her limits laid. Bookless, wandless, without any real understanding of what it was that she could do, she had performed more interesting feats than these Ravenclaws would ever dream to do themselves.

Deeper than that though, below the admiration he had for her pure potential, was a confused well of emotions. The two of them, Tom and Hermione, _fit_ together—they had similar drives, similar approaches to magic, and they'd spent enough time together to share small idiosyncrasies. His ego told him that she reminded him comfortingly enough of himself, and while that might be true it was probably more accurate to say that she was the closest thing to family he had ever known. But a part of Tom couldn't sort through what had happened between them, didn't know what his next move should be, and so he tried to content himself with pale substitutions.

His classmates—Eunice Macmillan and Hawkthorne Fawley—were not without their merits, however. Both surnames were listed among the families that made up the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The Macmillans, while not particularly advantaged themselves, had strong, favourable ties to the Black family. Tom could hardly walk around the common room without tripping over a Black; they made up a generous portion of Slytherin, and if he swayed even _one_ of them it could ripple through the whole House. The Fawleys, on the other hand, were practically the ruling class; Hawkthorne's uncle was the current Minister of Magic. Not that Tom could exert any influence in that area, but it was interesting to have an insider's perspective of the current political climate in Great Britain—particularly since the magical community had far different worries than the muggles did. All in all, though his 'friendships' were still in their fledgeling stages, he felt they had the potential to pay off in big ways.

The reward for these social transactions could be great, yet a part of him— _foolish, sentimental_ —longed for the raw simplicity he'd once known in the company of a girl from the future.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Hermione began her research by walking through the portrait galleries that she knew of. There were two main ones, each covering about five hundred years of important figures. Unfortunately, none of the paintings or photographs depicted their subjects as students, showing them instead when they had been at their most influential. When she had tried to ask one particularly chatty portrait about the school uniform it had trapped her into an hour-long conversation about declining moral standards. Though the conversation was interesting, it was hardly what she'd wanted to know and so she moved on to the trophy room. She was not much more successful there. While there were numerous pictures of students, most of them seemed to be wearing Quidditch uniforms or dress robes. There were a few class photos, but they were more recent than she suspected she needed to be looking.

Not knowing where else to turn, Hermione went to the Library. Madame Pince, the librarian—a tight-faced and cantankerous old woman—helped her find a small selection of books pertaining to the school. The first two were more directly about the Founders and provided her with no useful insights. It was the third book that finally brightened her day. She was passingly familiar with _Hogwarts, A History,_ having already browsed through it once. The tome was impossibly thick and full to bursting with more interesting facts than she could rightly memorise; the middle third even had a small comparative study on the changing standard of the Hogwarts uniform.

Students' robes had changed far more than she'd ever suspected. While the outer robes had endured unaltered since the time of the Founders, the uniform below it had apparently somewhat followed the fashion of the day. Every couple of decades, it seemed that a slightly different iteration of the outfit had become the new standard. Aside from the glaringly obvious blazer—which had been part of the official dress until the 1970's—it was difficult to pinpoint exactly how Tom's uniform had been unique. It didn't have the stiff, detachable collars that had been so popular in versions before 1910; in fact, his shirt had looked practically identical to hers. His jumper, though… It had been sleeveless, ribbed, and in a much darker grey than her own. After some restless page flipping and comparing, it turned out that that particular style had been used from the late 1920's until the about the mid 1950's. She was left with a window of approximately thirty years and didn't know how to narrow it any further without talking to Tom directly.

At least now she knew why he was always so hesitant to talk about his traveling; it wasn't likely he even knew how he was doing it. Did that explain why he hadn't told her, though? As much as Hermione tried to keep an open mind, she was a bit of a skeptic at heart, and she knew she wouldn't have believed him without some sort of proof. In his own mind had he worried that offering her that proof would damage the fabric of time somehow? Obviously, he couldn't have been _that_ worried because she'd seen him more often than she hadn't. And if the watch fob-turned-bracelet he'd given her or the books he'd borrowed were any indication, he was rather flippant about bringing things back and forth with him.

A part of her balked at the idea of time-travel. There were other explanations, _easier_ explanations. She knew for a fact that Tom had bought his uniform secondhand, surely that would account for a bit of a fashion gap. That thought felt strangely like a bit of a reach for some reason—after all, Ron, Fred, and George Weasley all wore secondhand robes and they still looked the same as the current uniform. Besides, even if the truth was so simple as out of date clothes, it didn't explain Tom's constant disappearing. Or, when she really thought back on it, his fascination with the modern furniture in her bedroom; and he _had_ given her the constant runaround about exchanging telephone numbers or addresses. In fact, he'd been very careful not to mention _anything_ specific about his home. She had assumed that was because he disliked the orphanage, but now she was beginning to suspect it was because something about it might have helped her pinpoint the fact that he was from the past.

But _why_ had he been so careful? When he'd said there could repercussions for telling her the truth, had he meant that? Had he truly believed that outright informing her he was from the past might be dangerous? Abruptly, Hermione realized she didn't know nearly enough about time-traveling, and there was no time like the present to rectify that problem.

The Library had a very small collection on the subject. She suspected that it actually had much more in the restricted section, but there was no way for her to check without explaining to a professor why she wanted permission—something she had a feeling might spark a full ministerial inquiry. There were five books she had access to, all of them by Author Unknown; she wasn't sure if that was supposed to imply they were time-travelers, or if the publisher just thought it was clever to make people think that. The first two books—' _So You've Fallen Through Time. Now What?'_ and ' _The Traveler's Directory: Important Historical Dates To Avoid Mucking Up, Unless You Were Supposed To, In Which Case Do'_ —were both very straightforward essays on the supposed dangers of messing with the timeline. ' _The Ouroboros Effect: Predestination and the Nature of Infinity'_ was a complicated treatise that she didn't really understand. It kept talking circles around itself and by the time she finally began to think she had it figured out, she suddenly found herself right back where she'd started. ' _Time-Turners: Man's Hubris or a Second Chance?'_ was a little easier to navigate, but it hardly said anything new that the first two books hadn't covered. The Time-Turners themselves were fascinating, though; it suddenly made the idea of time-travel that much more possible. The final book—' _Could Have Sworn I Had A Cat: Telling The Difference Between Senility and Rewritten History'_ (which had been dedicated, 'In Loving Memory of Mr. Tiffles. If, indeed, he ever existed'; she had a feeling the silly line wasn't a joke)—was another read that left her on the verge of a headache. It seemed, simultaneously, to confirm and contradict all four other books.

Hermione was at the end of her rope. The circular logic of the subject made her head hurt. There was no clear consensus on the nature of time-travel at all! One school of thought argued that there was no such thing as personal agency—everything that happened was meant to and there was no conceivable way to change the timeline. Another school seemed to think that even a minor disruption from the known sequence of events would change the whole course of history, likely for the worse. And then there was the meta-universe school, which appeared to suggest that any known deviation could spawn an infinite number of alternate realities. Of the three theories, only the second one seemed dangerous, so she hoped that it was wrong. There was one glaring problem with all three schools of thought, however: they only talked about someone going _back_ in time, not forward. She understood the oversight as all the books went out of their way to say that the future was always in motion, but… Well, wasn't the future just somebody else's past? How could something that had already happened from one point of view be considered unwritten from someone else's perspective? It made no sense!

Thankfully, she was saved from the agony of contemplating that thought any further by Harry. "Do you have a moment?" he asked her nervously.

Hermione had an idea about what he wanted.

That afternoon had been their first flying lesson and it had turned into just as big of a disaster as she'd feared. Although, admittedly, for very different reasons. Initially, she'd been stuck between her abject loathing of heights—the very idea of her feet leaving the ground, of forfeiting that level of control to what was essentially just enchanted janitorial supplies made her break into a cold sweat—and the certain knowledge that she had prove she _could_ fly, because she refused to fail at anything. In the end, it hadn't mattered; mere minutes into the lesson, poor Neville had lost control and broken his wrist. She'd never met anyone with more rotten luck! Of course, the second Madame Hooch had gotten out of sight, escorting Neville to the Infirmary, trouble had erupted between the Slytherins and the Gryffindors—Tom, of course, hadn't been there, but by now she hardly expected him to be. Draco Malfoy apparently couldn't resist an opportunity to show off and Harry, for reasons that were becoming clearer by the day, couldn't resist an opportunity to stand up to the blond git. Events had quickly spiraled out of control, confusingly ending in Harry becoming the new Gryffindor Seeker.

Of course, Malfoy hadn't been able to resist getting in his last digs at dinner that night, and now they were somehow all sworn to a wizard's duel at midnight. Well, Harry was sworn, Hermione was just his second—or maybe Ron was; they hadn't actually cleared that up yet. The two of them had jumped into the argument at the same time and hadn't backed down. Ron probably knew better how an actual duel went, but she was willing to bet that he didn't know as many curses as she did. It was the perfect opportunity for the two of them to team up, but she had a feeling she was the only one who would enjoy that. Harry, even though he had to sense the trouble between them, hadn't done anything to break their tie; in fact, he'd seemed flattered that they'd both jumped to his aid so quickly.

Now though, in the intervening hours between dinner and dueling, he'd clearly sought her out for a bit of preemptive help. As attached as he was to Ron—who was ten steps behind him and looking offended to be anywhere near the Library—Harry seemed to understand that Hermione's knowledgeability was an asset. For once, being a know-it-all had actually made someone seek her out! Well, twice, if she counted Tom, but she was trying very hard not to think of him lest her temporal ponderings and their accompanying headache return.

This time it was the redhead who interrupted her thoughts, asking, "So do you know any spells or not?"

"Ron!" Harry scolded him, shifting from foot to foot nervously. It still wasn't entirely clear if he liked her or not, but it was apparent that he didn't want to get on her bad side.

Ron didn't share his worry, snapping, "She's the one who stuck her nose into our business!" He rounded on her, taking several steps forward. "Either help us or butt out."

Hermione was unimpressed with his attitude; she couldn't think of anything she'd done to deserve such absolute dislike. "I already said I'd help, but first—"

"Here we go," Weasley sneered, interrupting her. "Going to try talking us out of it, aren't you?"

She ignored the jibe, partly because she really did want to talk them out of it and partly because she knew she wasn't going to. Instead, she continued, "—you have to say please."

"What?" His mouth hung open, nonplussed.

Harry, on the other hand, immediately gave her a bright smile and said, "Please."

Hermione couldn't help smiling back. "Not you, Harry," she shook her head, "I already promised you I'd help."

"But not me?" Ron asked, tone indignant. She didn't understand his surprise—he'd been singling her out for two weeks, why _shouldn't_ she return the favour?

Just to drive the point home, she told him pointblank, "I don't have to teach you anything, Weasley, especially not when you're being so rude." Then, mimicking his own tone, continued, "Either say please or butt out."

It took a boney elbow in the ribs from Harry and several long minutes before Ron finally managed to grate out a very insincere sounding, "Please."

It would have to do. If she pushed him any further he would walk away and she knew that wouldn't go over well with Harry. Instead, she nodded pleasantly, bundled up her things, and led them both out of the Library.

It took a few minutes, but eventually they found an abandoned old classroom to practise a few spells in. They started first with Ron explaining what he knew about wizard's duels, like a few of the different stances, and then Hermione picked out a couple of spells she thought would lead to a quick victory. Despite asking for it, Ron seemed perversely determined to ignore all her advice, producing little more than weak pops of light. Harry, on the other hand, was very quick to perform a spell, but seemed to have trouble keeping the incantations straight—at one point, he'd mixed together the Tickling Charm and the Jelly Legs Jinx, which had left them all feeling uncomfortably like their legs had fallen asleep.

Before long they had to return to the common room; it wouldn't do if they were found breaking curfew well before the duel. Whiling away the rest of the evening was difficult and it left Hermione with far too much time to ponder. She didn't like the thought of breaking the rules, of disappointing her professors and fellow Gryffindors. They could end up losing all of their House points or get kicked out of school entirely! But then again, so long as they weren't _caught_ , what was the harm? Malfoy had been so painstakingly rude, he deserved to be taught a lesson. It had brought to mind Tom's words from years ago—bullies that don't get stood up to remain bullies. Deep down though, she had a feeling that Malfoy wasn't going to bother showing up; he'd love nothing more than to get the rest of them in trouble while he was safe and sound in his warm bed.

By the time they finally left the common room, the three of them were so riddled with anxiety that they practically screeched when they tripped over Neville sleeping in the corridor. Apparently, he'd been out there for quite some time, having forgotten the new password.

Hermione scanned him quickly—his wrist had been mended and he looked somewhat shaken by a supposed encounter with the Bloody Baron, but he appeared no worse for the wear. "Oh, Neville," she sighed sympathetically. "You should have gone to the Great Hall before dinner let out; we could have walked back together."

"Well," he shrugged, looking hopeful, "we can walk together now, can't we?"

"It's no use," Ron replied. "The Fat Lady is gone; you'll just have to wait until she comes back. The new password is 'pig snout'."

The trio had hardly taken a few step away before Neville caught up. "Wait! Where are you three going?"

Harry made a shushing motion, then whispered, "We're off to settle the score with Malfoy."

Realising that the other Gryffindor boy had missed the whole scene, Ron explained, "He was going to chuck your Remembrall into the forest, but Harry stopped him."

"I still think this is a terrifically stupid idea," Hermione murmured, unable to stop the thought from leaving her lips.

"Then go back!" Ron rounded on her. "No one asked you to jump in as Harry's second."

Instead of getting mad, she gave him a serene smile and asked, "Do _you_ know any hexes?"

He geared up for what looked like a furious rebuttal—likely remembering his earlier failures—but Harry beat him to it. "Keep your voices down," the green-eyed boy hissed insistently. "It won't matter who my second is if we get caught before we even make it to the trophy room."

Hermione's hunch had turned out to be right, though—Malfoy didn't bother showing up, and had even gone so far as to tip off Filch. It had taken several mad dashes and a terrifying encounter with a monstrous, three-headed dog before all four of them finally made it back to the common room.

Over the course of the last two weeks, she had reconciled herself to the fact that Hogwarts was simply a strange place, but a three-headed guard dog seemed a little extreme. And it _was_ guarding something, of that much she was certain—one of its massive paws had been planted squarely atop a trapdoor. Harry appeared intrigued by that idea, but she hardly gave it a second thought. After all, she already had her own mystery to figure out.

Later, when Hermione was finally nestled in the safety of her bed, she slipped her watch fob-bracelet out from beneath her pillow. As she ran the cool silver links through her fingers, she thought about how complicated her friendship with Tom suddenly seemed if they were really so far apart in time. Was it greedy to want to see him again, even though she now had an idea of how dangerous their contact could potentially be? Because as angry as she still was—and she _definitely_ was—she couldn't deny the fact that she missed him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, struggling little misfits. Don't worry, they'll be back together soon enough!
> 
> As always, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to earedien, FreyaFallen, Glasuhr, and Angrypixels for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	14. He Is Seen

Chapter Fourteen: He Is Seen

_Hogwarts, 1938_

Tom had taken to haunting the Slytherin common room out of spite. His housemates might make a grand show of ignoring him, but he would make damned sure they _never_ forgot he was there. It was tempting to seek refuge in the Library, to find a temporary reprieve from the sneering incredulity of his peers, but he refused to show them that sort of weakness. Stubbornness had led him to claim a prominent spot near the fireplace, something that the portrait of the Milky-Yellow Python found about as endearing as his housemates. It hissed obscenities down at him but he ignored it, just as he ignored the way the nearby seating always became conspicuously empty once he'd arrived. One day, he vowed, they'd be _begging_ to fill those chairs around him. So, understandably, it was something of a shock when someone _did_ sit beside him.

True to his word, Andrus Lestrange had kept his distance. However, unlike the rest of Slytherin, he'd watched Tom from afar with _interest_. The unspoken promise, of course, had been that he could be a ready made "friend" as soon as Tom found a way of elevating his station. Only, as far as he was aware, he had yet to do that so why, then, was Lestrange taking this sudden risk?

"Ah, you again," Tom greeted offhandedly. He didn't wish to appear too keen, but he was curious what had prompted this visit. "I thought we had decided this was not yet a mutually beneficial relationship."

Andrus snorted. "You've bought yourself a couple of minutes, I'd say."

Tom narrowed his eyes. So Slughorn had been right, there _was_ something that he'd failed to take into account, some way to ease the nasty opinions of him. "What do you mean?" _What had he overlooked?_

"You've earned us more House points than any other First Year," the other boy replied with an easy shrug. "If you keep that pace up, we're guaranteed to come out on top. It's been a _long_ time since Slytherin won the House Cup."

"Long enough to forgive an unclear lineage?" Tom asked interestedly. However, in the privacy of his own thoughts, he was cursing at himself. He had tuned out Dumbledore's speech about House points, had failed to appreciate what sort of leverage a merit system could provide him.

"No," Lestrange interrupted his thoughts with a biting laugh, "but certainly enough to make you _somewhat_ less of a social pariah."

He shoved that hope to a back burner, letting his face fall blank as he murmured dryly, "Your warm regard is touching, Andrus, really."

"And of course it's been noted that Slughorn has taken an interest in you."

That statement rang between them like an odd non sequitur. Tom couldn't even begin to guess how Slughorn's attention was at all useful, and didn't mind saying so. "Why should that matter? The man is easy to please."

"Not as much as you'd think," Lestrange replied, offering him a conspirator's smile. "You see, the old boy is something of a social climber. Don't let that doddering exterior fool you—he can smell marketable talent a mile off. Every single one of his favourites has gone on to achieve some level of fame."

For a very brief moment, Tom considered the possibility that the other boy was making fun of him, trying to feed him a lie. He thought Slughorn was nothing if not benign, but what if there was more to the man than he'd guessed? He'd made a lot of bad assumptions lately, it would be a shame to make another. Still, he wasn't entirely sure he was reading the older boy correctly and so his reply was a stoney, disbelieving, "Really."

"Didn't you wonder why a softy like him was Head of Slytherin?" Andrus seemed delighted by his lapse in judgement. "He's as conniving as the rest of us, he just hides it better."

He could feel a red flush creeping up the back of his neck and he attempted to offset it by acting nonchalant. "Could have fooled me."

Lestrange's grin spread wider. " _Did_ fool you."

Tom went very quiet and considered his next words carefully. He knew that the potential friendship offered by the older boy was more about practicality than respect, but he found the oversight rude nonetheless. "My good humour is a terrible thing to squander, Lestrange," he warned quietly. "Just because I am disadvantaged does not mean I am _powerless_." There were so many corridors that went unpatrolled, so many empty classrooms to stage an accident in; he'd been on his best behaviour so far, but he could go back to being his old-self in a heartbeat. "Tread carefully."

"Ah," Andrus clapped, not at all perturbed by the threat, though he did seem to understand that it was genuine, "so the orphan has some venom after all! I was beginning to worry you were a Ravenclaw mis-sort; we get those from time to time, you know. And you have been rather chummy with the Ravenclaws."

"What exactly was my alternative?" he returned bitterly. Even now, even next to one of their precious Purebloods, the rest of the common room regarded him with poorly concealed contempt. "You're the only person in Slytherin who's not actively trying to pretend I don't exist."

Lestrange looked around and conceded, "Fair enough. Flawed logic, though—they know you exist, they're just not sure what you're about yet, but they _are_ starting to get curious. You chose your Ravenclaws well." A slanted, sideways look crept over him—abruptly, it seemed as though he were fishing for something. "On purpose, I assume?"

Regardless of whatever the boy wanted, Tom saw no reason not to be honest. What did he care if Andrus knew how perfunctory his relationships were? "It seemed advantageous," he admitted breezily, "though it has yet to really pay off."

"Bit of advice?" Tom had spent enough time in the company of charlatans to know when someone was angling to sell him snake-oil. Lestrange's voice had gone soft and friendly, raising red flags as he explained, "Eunice Macmillan is an only child; to compensate for this, her cousins have become like surrogate siblings. She is _particularly_ close to Alphard Black; in fact, I daresay he's wrapped around her little finger."

If that was true then it was very useful information, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Andrus was attempting to hook him for some reason. What could the older boy possibly want from someone in such an untenable position? The only way for him to find out for sure was to play along. Striving for indifference, Tom dug a little, "Indeed? And has he much influence with the rest of his family?"

Lestrange did not appear to sense the shifted mood. "He's the eldest of his siblings, but not the eldest Black at school." Another shrug and then he explained, "Still, it's an in among some other First Years," as if Tom could not have connected those dots on his own.

The orphan's temper was beginning to stray dangerously close to the surface; something wasn't right about this conversation, but he could not pinpoint why. Calmly, in his own charlatan's voice, he asked, "And what about you?"

Andrus attempted to deflect, "Get yourself into Alphard's circle and no one will bat an eye at our acquaintance."

A soft smile bloomed across Tom's lips and, using the same silky tone he'd once heard a particularly convincing con artist use, pressed, "Why do I feel as if I'm being tested?"

The older boy was gently lulled, his facade dropping by inches. "No one expected you to make it this far. Other First Years in your position have usually broken down by now. Instead, you're acing all your classes; it's raised a couple of brows, and the older students don't mind taking pleasure in the idea that there's a Slytherin who can beat the Ravenclaws at their own game." The pleasant facade slipped further, greed shining in those dark eyes. "You're in a unique position right now—you have the opportunity to change some opinions—so don't mess this up, Riddle. It would be a shame to see such potential squandered."

"Duly noted," Tom hummed. Then, cruelly as he could, allowed his voice to sharpen when he snapped, "It is worth mentioning, however, that while the going has been slow, I've been doing just _fine_ without you."

The tonal whiplash made Lestrange flinch, and he seemed to realise for the first time that Tom was on to whatever game he was playing. Defensive now, he hid behind a laugh, "Well, excuse me, Your Lordship! Just trying to help."

"And why is that?" he bit out, wanting to get to the point of all this maneuvering.

"You're different. There's no point in sugarcoating it: you're not the usual sort that gets put into Slytherin." The greed was back, hidden behind a strange measure of flattery, but still certainly there. "You're sharp-eyed, quick witted, and if you're given to breaking rules no one has caught you yet. For decades now, maybe even centuries, this House has been flooded with short-sighted bullies that only made it in because they didn't fit into any of the other Houses, but you…" He paused, glancing slyly at the younger boy. "You're almost everything a Slytherin _should_ be. If you'd had a proper name, you could have already had this place wrapped around your fist." More red flags. This was unwarranted flattery—Lestrange hadn't been around him enough to make these sort of judgements. It was clear the older boy was building up to something, feeding Tom's ego so that he would be more agreeable. For what purpose, though?

"Why would you help me to realise that?" Tom asked in a scrupulously blank tone. "Why not wrap the House around your own fist, Andrus?"

"I want to see this place changed, brought back to its former glory, and I see in you the ability to do that." The Second Year smiled winningly, doing a very good impression of sheepish admiration. "You have a steel-set resolve and the appropriate capabilities to see your ambitions through to the end."

But Tom had heard enough; he suddenly felt that he knew what shape this conversation was taking, and it was all he could do just to keep playing along. "And you _don't?_ Even with all your cunning and foresight?"

"I lack the drive—"

The trap was finally visible to him and his temper _snapped_ , "I will not be made your _puppet_ , Lestrange!" He could see the cunning fish hook now: ingratiate the poor, clever orphan squarely into his debt for such kind guidance and the boy would have a useful _toady_ to do whatever work Lestrange deemed too dirty for his own hands. He was sorely mistaken if he thought Tom Riddle would ever be _obedient_. Letting loose some of the malice he had kept so tightly under wraps since leaving London, he continued, "Your advice has been appreciated, but don't think to manipulate me! You haven't the vaguest idea what I have planned—Hogwarts is just the beginning."

Something in his bearing finally made the older boy wary. "You're the most intriguing boy I've ever met," he said carefully. "Or the most infuriating, I haven't decided yet." He paused for a moment, a question clearly bothering him, before he asked, "Am I really so transparent?"

"The sole advantage to an unsavory childhood, I assure you," Tom sneered. "I can read you like a book."

Tactics laid bare, Lestrange made a last ditch effort to flatter him, "Perhaps, I seek to help you because I don't wish to end up on your bad side."

"You're doing a spectacularly poor job of it," Tom replied bluntly. He was quickly growing weary of this farce, and though Andrus was the closest thing to an ally he had in Slytherin he didn't mind letting the older boy know that his patience was swiftly coming to an end.

"You have quite the temper, don't you?" Andrus laughed, finally letting the act fall completely. "I wouldn't have guessed it after two months of near silence."

"Don't patronise me, Lestrange," he warned, surreptitiously gripping his wand under his sleeve. "I will create some pull eventually, and when I do you could find yourself suddenly _disadvantaged_." Never mind that they were both underclassmen, Tom would find the means to his ends even if it drove him mad. "Right now I'm on my best behaviour because I'm still learning your rules, but once I have those down I'll be bringing my own to the table—you might not like the consequences of your flippant attitude then."

"I almost want to see you fail now," the Second Year admitted morbidly, "but I think that if you did, you'd take us all down with you out of sheer spite." He blinked a few time, finally appearing to really take Tom's measure. "We're damned either way, though, aren't we? Whatever you have planned will be devastating for anyone who's not standing beside you." He cocked his head. "Lofty dreams for someone so young."

Tom allowed the worst of his anger to slip away—after all, Lestrange had only wanted to do to him what he himself wished to do to everyone else. His resentment would linger, but even that did not diminish how potentially useful the older boy could still prove to be. "It's going to be a very long game, Andrus," he spoke quietly. "I could use your help—but I don't _need_ it."

Lestrange stared at him as if he were something completely _new_ —a mixture of dawning awe and trepidation—and replied equally soft, "Understood." Two paths laid before this boy, and Tom fancied he saw the very moment a decision was reached. Standing carefully, almost fully turned away, Lestrange tentatively offered his allegiance, "Alphard is among my cousins; we're not close, but I can soften him up a bit for you. It would still be best to get your introduction through the Macmillan chit, though—he really would move mountains for her. Getting into Alphard's good graces may take a little time, but it will be quicker than waiting for anything to pay off with Fawley."

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Hermione grit her teeth and attempted to smother a coughing sob. Hot, angry tears were rolling down her face and she resented each salty drop. She was stronger than this, she _knew_ that and yet she couldn't stem the tide of her hurt feelings. If she were being perfectly honest though, she had to admit that these private theatrics had been a long time coming. It had been a gruelling two months with very few reprieves. Her classmates had only continued to grow colder and more vindictive as she maintained top marks in their increasingly difficult lessons. Lavender Brown had rallied the other Gryffindor girls against her, whispering cruel things when they could be sure she would overhear them. Their insults weren't original—she'd been treated to variations of them for years now—but it still wore her down. In fact, if it hadn't been for Lavender's weeks-long campaign against her, Hermione probably wouldn't have been flustered enough to even register Ron's callus words that afternoon.

It was really _his_ fault she was crying in a bathroom, that she'd been reduced to this pointless silliness. Even after their midnight adventure, over a month ago, Ron had still refused to open up to her. She couldn't figure out what she had done wrong and had even gone so far as to ask Harry about an uncomfortable suspicion. "Is it because I'm a muggleborn?"

"What?" He had appeared stunned by the thought, green eyes blinking at her owlishly.

His surprise hadn't stopped Hermione from seeking a straight answer though, so she'd clarified, "He hates me, and I was just wondering if it's because I'm a muggleborn and earning higher marks than he is." It wasn't a terribly generous thing to think about her housemate, but she wasn't sure what else the problem could be.

Harry had simply shaken his head, looking uncomfortable when he'd answered, "I think you remind him of his brother Percy."

"I like Percy," she'd replied immediately. The elder Weasley was one of the very few at Hogwarts who seemed to enjoy her company. True, he had a bit of an ego, but that didn't make his intellect any less engaging.

As if he'd been able to hear her thoughts, Harry had given her a sad smile and pointed out, "Yeah, well, I don't think Ron does as much."

"What can I do, then? I'm not changing for him," she'd groused stubbornly. "He'll take me as I am, or not at all."

And she'd remained true to that sentiment for many days, doing her best to entice Ron's company without compromising her own sense of self. It was difficult though, the redhead always seemed to have just the comment to make her spitting mad, and after several unrelenting weeks she had to admit that she was getting a bit tired of trying. Her campaign for his friendship was beginning to feel like a lost cause.

The whole mess had finally come to a head that afternoon. She'd been paired up with Weasley during Charms and had spent the better part of the lesson making a valiant effort not to snap at him. Just as when they'd been practicing curses together, he seemed to go out of his way to ignore her advice even though it was exactly what Professor Flitwick had already been telling them for days now. At first, she'd attempted to ignore it, but the sheer _wrongness_ of his methods had finally broken her resolve. If she'd thought his mood had been sour before, it was nothing compared to how he acted after she'd corrected him. The minute class had let out, he'd gone stomping through the corridor complaining loudly to Harry about how much of a pain she was. She could have forgiven that, could have even ignored it outright, but his next words had pierced straight through her weary heart.

"It's no wonder she hasn't got any friends!"

Hermione had nearly bitten clean through her lip just to keep from bursting into tears on the spot. Because in the end he was right, wasn't he? The girls all hated her, the boys thought she was completely irritating, and while both Neville and Harry had proven sympathetic she wasn't sure she could really consider them friends yet. So she'd taken refuge in one of the girls' bathrooms, letting her tears fall as they may, because what else could she do at this point? A brief image of Harry came to her—he'd appeared apologetic as she'd dashed past them in the corridor—and she thought perhaps, if she could ever get him alone, she might be able to achieve some level of comfort with him. Yet, she found it was an entirely different dark-haired boy she wished to take solace in.

Tom had never been gone from her for so long since their very first argument, and she missed his presence deeply. He would have scoffed at her classmates' antics, deflected their insults or made them seem less important. At the very least, he would have bolstered her spirits between confrontations. While he was not often effusive, Hermione had always found that Tom inspired a certain confidence in her; she could always be herself around him. He didn't care that she wasn't girlish or popular or demure; didn't even care when she was rude, to be honest. In fact, he was drawn to a lot of the qualities others found so repulsive in her—he loved her bookishness and matched it, step for step, with his own. Without him, she felt keenly alone. She'd been around him for so long that she'd taken for granted what his extended absence might feel like. It hadn't really bothered her at first, but as the weeks had crawled past she'd begun to feel more and more isolated, so different from how she'd first pictured her time at Hogwarts would be.

She'd had such hope when Professor McGonagall had given her her Letter. Cosy, endearing fantasies had sprung across her dreams so easily. Her and Tom together at last, no more sneaking around or hiding what they could do! It sounded silly and mundane, but she had really looked forward to being able to do their homework or study for exams together, to keep up their silent magical competition even as they helped one another along. It was painful to have those simple desires so thoroughly dashed. No one understood her quite the way he did, no one made her feel as comfortable about who she was. Even though she had, in part, driven him away—and would do so again, if he ever put her in such a terrible position—she finally admitted that Hogwarts felt empty without him. It was not at all the haven she'd imagined it would be.

And so Hermione allowed herself to cry—because of Lavender and Ron and stupid, _stupid_ Tom—letting out two months of pent up anger and confusion, not knowing that the rest of the school was about to be sent into a spiral of panic.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1938_

Tom wandered the corridors restlessly, wanting to be alone with his thoughts. His conversation with Lestrange had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. What if he hadn't been quick enough, _clever_ enough to realise what the older boy had been attempting to do? It might have opened doors amongst his fellow Slytherins, but the idea of being Lestrange's lackey was ignoble at best. And he couldn't help wondering how many others would try to do the same in the coming years. Would every conversation be fraught with traps, laced with poison? The prospect of being constantly on guard sounded simultaneously tedious and dangerous. How was he meant to have a single meaningful exchange when every word could be baited to hook him into social servitude? The only answer, of course, was to hook them first. Perhaps it wasn't enough simply to have influence—maybe he had to own them outright, for his own peace of mind. It was a fitting enough thought; if he was to achieve the level of notoriety he envisioned, it would take a massive powerbase. He would need supporters, and the Slytherins were nothing if not connected. Through them, he would be able to control most of the wealth and political power in all of Great Britain.

In that light, his conversation with Lestrange had ultimately been a success then. The boy had seemed rather taken with his ambitions, though he hadn't pressed for any sort of explanation of what those were yet. Tom doubted that Andrus would give pause at the idea of dominion—the common room was thick with souls craving after the idea of power. And through Lestrange, Tom could finally reach the rest of them; his path was blessedly clear of roadblocks for once.

It was a _long_ road though, twisted and extending before him for years to come. There was so much hard work to be done and no immediate satisfaction in sight. It left him weary just to understand the massive shape of everything he had yet to do. And with that weariness came a dull ache: a desire for simplicity and comfort, for temporary solace from these exhausting machinations. An undeniable desire for Hermione.

For eight weeks he had ignored the siren call of the future, but that singular girl had never been far from his thoughts. In all his life, Tom had never met anyone that only desired from him his company—excepting her. The orphans of London had wanted his absence or protection, the bluebloods of Hogwarts wanted to control him, but Hermione had never asked for anything, save his presence. It was such a simple desire, one his pride had denied her—and for what? In her own way, she had provided for him: given him food, temporary shelter, and above all stimulation. What had he given her in return? Magic, certainly, or at least what he'd understood of it at the time, and perhaps a measure of safety from her more aggressive peers, but by and large what he'd given her the most of was his temper and dishonesty. Even to him that seemed unfair. Their relationship had been a constant balancing act and, though he'd tried not to, he knew he'd shown her some of his worst—in retrospect, the idea that she still wished to be friends after all that was miraculous. Why deny her that? Why deny _himself_ that? Allowing his pride to stand in the way ensured only that they _both_ lost. And without her his best alternative was the pair of Ravenclaws, who had long since proven to him that they lacked any sort of vision. There was no sense in trying to replace what was clearly superior; Hermione was _different_ from everyone in a way that worked well with his own sense of being different. Like two halves of a whole, they simply _fit_ and he knew, somehow, that he would never find her equal.

That thought made him curse anew at the decades between them. He couldn't help imagining how much more interesting his lessons might have been with her there; how they could have been pushing past the limits of those simple exercises while his classmates were still struggling just to understand the concepts. The simple fact of the matter was that without Hermione, Tom wasn't feeling challenged. He completed his lessons easily enough, and what he didn't already know only took a small amount of studying to learn; he was more consumed with busywork than actual magic. Her presence in 1938 not only would have alleviated the worst of his boredom, it would have added a level of excitement that his life currently lacked.

He could not bring her back. After several years of trying, the truth was inescapable: something about his power made it impossible to carry other living creatures with him, and at eleven years old he lacked the understanding and strength to change that fact. His only recourse, then, was to continue visiting the future. Could he swallow his pride and return to her? After two months would she be glad to see him?

There was only one way to find out.

It hardly took any concentration at all to make the jump these days, though the growing blankness of the Void continued to plague him. Belatedly, it occurred to Tom that the Halloween feast had already begun, that he might end up appearing from nowhere in front of the entire school, but that fear was thankfully unfounded. However, ending up in a girls' bathroom did inspire a certain amount of embarrassment all the same.

The thought was abruptly pushed from his mind when he caught sight of his friend. Hermione was hunched in front of a mirror, choking on ragged exhalations. When she looked up, it was clear from her reflection that she'd been crying for quite some time—her cheeks were flushed, eyes rimmed with red, and she looked exhausted from expending so much energy.

Tom felt a whisper of panic knot his stomach. He was no stranger to tears, certainly having caused more than his fair share—in fact, on occasion he even found the sight pleasantly amusing—but he had never before seen _her_ cry. Her eyes had welled in the midst of arguments or that one time she'd badly skinned her knees, but she had always managed to hold the tears back. Part of him had just assumed that she was too practical to allow it, that she wouldn't see any logical use in the act and would therefore simply refuse to breakdown. What on earth had happened to crack her iron resolve?

"Hermione?" he asked, taking several steps closer. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Mind whirling through terrible scenarios, he reached out and turned her around. Gentleness was foreign to him, but he did his best to keep his hands light and steady as he searched her for injury. "Why are you crying?"

She looked up at him, her obvious surprise at his presence stemming the flow of tears. In a husky and somewhat confused voice, she hiccuped, "St-stupid Ron Weasley."

Tom felt himself grow cold. "What happened?" There was a small cut on her lip, dried blood flaking off when he carefully ran his thumb over the closed wound. "Did he hit you?" The very idea made him see red. Some _boy_ had dared to raise a hand against Hermione? He knew her stance on revenge and violence was unfavorable, but this was _unacceptable_ —so much worse than anything that Smythe brat had ever done. Ron Weasley was about to find out that she was irrefutably off limits. "I'll wring his neck!" But he'd hardly taken more than a step away before her hand shot out to bring him back.

Hermione stomped angrily and gave him a shake. "This is all your fault!" She glared at him accusingly.

"My fault?" he asked, dumbfounded and a little lost. "How is this my fault?" She had refused his protection in the past, so it didn't seem likely that she would hold him accountable for her wellbeing now. A small, guilty part of him did feel as if he'd failed her, though. A girl like her wasn't made to endure violence; she was soft in a way that people from the his own time were not. If he'd been there he might have been able to spare her the experience. Instead of proving himself useful, he'd been moping through the halls like an idiot, and in his absence she'd been hurt. The idea made him furious—partly because he knew she was more than capable of defending herself, but _wouldn't_ for absolutely nonsensical reasons—and it made his magic swirl around him in a way it had not done since his visit to the seaside cave.

"You _abandoned_ me, Tom," she snapped, interrupting his thoughts. Her tears began to fall freely again, more angry now but still just as potent. "You didn't think that would hurt my feelings in the long run?"

It took a moment for her meaning to sink in, and once it did all he managed was a stupid sounding, "Oh." She wasn't hurt, not physically at least. Whatever Ron Weasley had done was apparently only a small part of the reason she was in tears. The main cause was Tom himself. He felt the knot in his stomach twist tighter and he shifted nervously from foot to foot. He'd been the unforgiving cause of a lot of tears, but he'd always enjoyed inspiring those; watching Hermione cry and knowing it was his fault made him distinctly uncomfortable. This is what his pride had wrought: taken a bright, resilient girl and reduced her to an emotional mess. The price of his stubbornness was proving to be brutally high. Two months he'd spent in growing isolation and suffering—he'd known exactly how difficult their time apart was—and she was still a girl, after all, so of course the separation would have been harder on her. Was his ego really so great that he'd needed to invoke this senseless grief?

Tom swallowed, his throat suddenly tight as he watched the wet tracks soak into the collar of her shirt. Familiar as he was with sorrow, it had never been his business to soothe it. There had been no kind words at Wool's, no tender displays, and what little physical contact existed had always been rough and abrupt. He had never given nor received any kind of comfort, had no experience to draw upon—this sort of gentle consoling had always seemed like an intrinsic part of the mystery that was family. But Hermione was the closest thing he'd ever had to family, so was it not his place to at least _try_ for her?

"No, no, don't cry," he murmured, drawing her close into the sort of embrace he imagined a parent or a sibling might offer. Despite how angry she clearly was, Hermione slipped into the hug gratefully, albeit briefly. She was so much shorter than him that she could practically tuck her head under his chin, and she did so for a few seconds before pulling slightly back. But she was still more or less in his arms, which he took as a good sign, so he continued, "Tell me what to do, and I swear to you I'll make this better. Just, please, stop crying."

She did not respond, save for a soft hiccuping. Doubt was plainly etched across her features, holding her tongue silent.

Tom held back a sigh, struggling with himself for a moment. He knew what had to be said, and he knew he had to _mean_ it. "I'm sorry," he told her seriously, dabbing at her tears with the edge of his sleeve. "I don't know if that helps at all, but I know I need to apologize. I am _sorry_ , Hermione, a thousand times over." It was an effort to get the words out at first, but once he'd started he found that he couldn't stop. "I'm sorry that I lied to you; I'm sorry that I let my temper get the better of me; I'm sorry that I stopped visiting; and I'm sorry that you had to face all of this alone. I've been a rotten friend to you, I realise that now."

She stilled his hand and peered up at him. "Do you really mean it this time?"

"With every ounce of my being," he replied. The words were as alien to him as the sentiment and he could only hope that he sounded earnest enough.

But Hermione was not quite sold. "Three years of lies," she bit out, pushing him away, "two months of agony, and you had me so confused… I missed you so much, but I don't know if I can ever trust you again."

"I missed you, too," he reached for her, but did not take hold, "more than I ever thought I _could_ miss someone. Is there nothing I can do to make this up to you?" His hand hung between them, a silent plea for connection. "I can't bear the thought of another day apart. Hogwarts is miserable without someone who understands— _I'm_ miserable without _you_."

She bit her lip, reopening the small cut he'd spied there, and appeared to weigh his words. Her own hand twitched, as if desirous for what he offered, but when she spoke, her tone was heavy with resignation, "You've always had a way with words; that makes it very difficult to believe you just now."

How many times had he played at sympathy? How many empty apologies had she accepted in good faith? It was bitterly unjust that the one time he honestly meant every word, he could not convince her of that fact. He could not even begrudge her her cynicism; he'd earned every moment of her suspicion, payed for each second with his careless platitudes. Had he been in her position, he didn't think he'd ever be capable of trust again. There had to be some way to get through to her, though; some way to impress upon her how badly he wanted to repair their relationship. There were no pretty gifts to give her this time, no insidious words to lull her. He had only one thing to offer—that self-same quality that had driven them so far apart. His damnable pride.

In eleven years, Tom had kneeled to no one, _accepted_ no on as deserving of his respect, but over the past two months it had become clear that Hermione filled an emptiness in his life no one else seemed capable of even touching. She was important to him in ways that could not be fully verbalised, utterly irreplaceable. He couldn't comprehend the thought of living without her—and wasn't that itself a form of respect? She was superior to anyone else he'd met, and it was long past time to acknowledge that.

Swallowing thickly, gritting his teeth against the impulse to stay still, he slid smoothly down to the floor. "I was wrong in every conceivable way, and I am down on my knees _begging_ you to forgive me." Embarrassment and discomfort kept his head bowed, a move he knew would look like deference, but a part of him simply couldn't face her from such a debasing position. "You know I don't make this gesture lightly, but I will do whatever must be done for you, Hermione." She remained eerily silent above him, so he braced himself and added, "Hold it over my head for years if you have to, but _please_ tell me that we can fix this."

Her hand threaded through his hair in a brief caress as she replied, "It really _must_ be lonely in the past." Her voice was tart, but not necessarily accusing anymore; in fact, she almost sounded playful.

Tom's head snapped up. "You figured it out," he smiled. He'd known she would, of course, but he had assumed she would need more contact, more clues, to do so.

Hermione's tears had finally dried, her doe-like eyes rounded in wonder at the sight of him below her. She did not take advantage of the situation as he might have, instead drily replying, "Took me a week or two. It was your uniform that tipped me off; it's a bit old-fashioned."

His knees were beginning to ache against the cold stone floor and his ego smarted terribly, but he wasn't sure if it was safe to move yet. Hiding his uncertainty in a jokingly light tone, he asked, "Can I stand now, or am I still groveling?"

"Oh, get up," she smiled at him, an alluring sight that inspired hope. Even her next words were not enough to dampen his newfound relief, "You're not precisely forgiven, you understand. Consider this probation—lie to me again and there _will_ be trouble."

He rose to his feet as gracefully as possible and mulled her warning over. _Not precisely forgiven_ was not the same _unforgiven_. So long as he behaved himself, they were basically back to where they'd been before their fight. Not ideal, but not unfavourable either. Her terms were fair enough, so he acquiesced, "As you wish, My Lady," with a joking bow, reminiscent of the last time he'd called her by that title.

"Stop that," she snapped, but the fondness in her eyes far outweighed her irritation.

Tom straightened his uniform, dusting imaginary debris from his robes. When he finally straightened back up, he offered her a raised brow and asked, "Not a good first two months then, I take it?"

Hermione snorted, an indelicate sound from someone so small. "About as enjoyable as yours, apparently."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Blood purity?" Had she been made to endure the same hardships he'd faced?

She shook her head and replied, "Know-it-all." Then, recalling his words from so long ago, made as if to hit him and continued, "And if you say, 'I told you so,' I shall slap you."

He dodged her empty threat with ease, laughing, " _There's_ the Hermione that I missed!" This was the most comfortable, the most lighthearted he'd felt since boarding the train from London. The steady ache that had plagued him was finally easing.

"So," she drew the word out, businesslike even as she bumped shoulders with him playfully, "are we just not going to talk at all about the fact that you're a time-traveler?"

Tom smothered the urge to flinch—he genuinely _did not_ wish to speak about it, because there were still a few things he just wasn't willing to share with her. His real name, for example. Could he risk lying to her after just having promised not to? It seemed ill advised, but then again so did lying through omission which he was already doing. He couldn't refuse to talk about it though, because that would seem suspicious, and the last thing he wanted right now was to reignite her temper. "We can," he finally hummed with an offhandedness he did not really feel, "if you like."

Hermione seemed positively giddy at the prospect. Not that he blamed her, but it was still the last conceivable conversation he wanted to take part in. Her happiness—such a long lost sight—almost made the danger worth it. "Honesty makes you surprisingly polite," she smiled at him wickedly, perhaps aware of her advantage in that moment. "I could get used to that."

And, despite how easily he knew they could both erupt back into an argument, he returned that smile, "I wouldn't recommend it."

"Tease," she accused and made a brief show of pouting. The act fell quickly though, her curiosity getting the better of her. "When are you from, exactly?" Her sharp mind was whirling, trying to connect facts that she couldn't fully see—he might have felt uncomfortably pinned down if not for how genuinely refreshing the sight was. "I narrowed it down to somewhere between 1920 and 1950, but I obviously couldn't pinpoint a specific date."

He couldn't lie to her, but that didn't mean he _had_ to tell her the truth, so instead he deflected, "Do you think it's wise to get specific? So little is understood about the nature of time-travel."

Her excitement dimmed, an unforgiving look hardening her eyes. "That's not fair," she pointed out in a low, dangerous tone. "You've had every opportunity to learn about the future, which is a lot more potentially dangerous than me learning about the past."

Tom opened his mouth a few times, struggling to explain his hesitations. It went beyond a simple desire to control her perception of him. When he'd first understood that he was traveling through time he'd been overwhelmed by the possibilities, but as he had gotten older the philosophical implications had begun to dawn on him. "I haven't gone looking for information explicitly about myself though, have I? Knowing my own future would be a terrible burden, and if I told you when I'm from I know you would do everything in your power to find out about me. Let it remain a mystery."

Hermione frowned at him and cocked her head. "Why?" Her confusion could not have been more obvious—it was simply in her nature to want every possible explanation.

Just as it was plainly in his nature to want control, an attribute that could be dangerously undercut by foreknowledge. "I don't want to wake up every morning wondering if I'm doing something because I want to or because I know that it's already happened that way," he explained. "Let me live my life on my own terms. Please." He had to believe that he was the master of his own actions, otherwise there was no such thing as free will. Knowing his own future would surely drive him to change it out of spite—just to prove that he _could_ —an endless series of perverse reactions that would no doubt deliver him to the brink of madness. "We're both better off not knowing."

She weighed his sentiment, and though she clearly did not agree she allowed the matter to drop. "Can you at least tell me how you do it?"

"I'm not entirely sure, actually," he replied easily, relieved that she hadn't pressed the issue, hadn't forced him to lie at such a fragile stage in their reconciliation. "The first two times were an accident, but after that I found that I could control it if I focused on you."

"Really?" Her great intellect was engaged once more, likely running through every book she'd no doubt read on the subject. "I wonder why?"

In some ways it was a relief to have at least part of the truth out in the open, to be able to speak freely about this power that he still barely understood. "I have a theory that it's not time-travel at all," he admitted, "that's just a side effect. It's you, specifically, that I'm traveling to; I can't make it work any other way. For some reason, you and I are connected."

If Hermione found that idea hard to believe, she never got the opportunity to say so. They were abruptly interrupted by what appeared to be a mountain troll. How such a famously stupid creature had managed to get so deep into the castle in the first place was a mystery that paled in comparison to the ample danger it troll was massive, at least twelve feet tall, and unhelpfully blocking the only exit. Within moments, the beast began wreaking havoc, smashing sinks and breaking mirrors, closing the distance between them all the while.

Tom did not precisely push Hermione behind him—he didn't think she'd appreciate the protective gesture no matter how dire the situation—but he did step in front of her ever-so-slightly. Not that she needed his help; in the time he'd wasted repositioning himself, she had summoned a burst of blue flames to distract the creature. He wasn't sure if fire was really the best way to drive it off, but after only a few weeks of formal education they didn't really have a lot of spells at their disposal. They began herding the creature back in tandem and they nearly had it all the way to the exit when two boys came bursting through the door.

A gangly redhead and a short, black-haired boy stood just inside the girls' bathroom, looking out of breath and worried. They were both likely First Years and would therefore prove little assistance, but they quickly threw themselves into the fight anyhow. Tom spared them each a quick glance—who were they and why had they appeared so quickly on the heels of this troll?—but he found his eyes drifting time and again to the dark-haired boy. There was something strangely familiar about him, even though Tom was sure they had never met.

The next several minutes passed in a tense blur of action and shouting. Possibly-Harry-Potter helped Tom and Hermione distract the troll, while Probably-Ron-Weasley managed to use the creature's own club to knock it out. Introductions were hardly forthcoming once the troll was down, however. An awkward moment of silence stretched between the four students, the stillness only broken by the sound of approaching feet.

Tom had never meant to be seen by anyone from Hermione's time, but the idea of other eleven year olds catching sight of him didn't seem so bad now that it had already happened. However, being caught by a professor, a staff member that could be searching for him at Dumbledore's behest, was another thing entirely. He would have to leave, even though it meant betraying himself in front of these two boys and despite the fact that there was still so much left unsaid between him and Hermione.

A young man came into the room then—clearly a professor, regardless of his insignificant age—and even with his faint trembling and giant turban Tom might have considered him unremarkable. There was something else there though, a darkness surrounding the man that seemed to whisper _death_ and _danger_ , yet it had that same familiar edge to it that he'd sensed from the dark-haired boy. What was this invisible shadow hiding in plain sight? It set his teeth on edge, made his skin feel tight and uncomfortable; it made him want to grab Hermione and throw the both of them back to a decade where this _thing_ could never find them.

Before the man turned to see him, Tom attempted to do just that, already knowing the futility of the gesture. True to form, no matter how tightly he gripped her, he could not pull Hermione from her own time. In the isolation of the Void, he contemplated the threat she'd just been potentially left with. What was that darkness, and why had he seemed to be the only one that could sense it? Was she safe from it? How could she be safe _at all_ with that sort of decay infesting Hogwarts?

The Void gave way to an empty corridor, but he hardly took pleasure in the sight, too worried for his friend to feel much relief at his own safety. There was little he could do though, as returning so soon would surely get him caught. He would simply have to bide his time, and when he was able to return to her they were going to have a very long talk about this mysterious professor of hers.

In the meantime, Tom would visit the Library. Some studying was in order; he'd never needed to understand the magical nature of time-travel more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter spiraled completely out of my control, both in terms of length and content. Wee baby Voldemort has (about 8,000 words worth of) feelings? I'm just as shocked as the rest of you!
> 
> And as always, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to Rammy (ramofpride), Lunavert, earedien, and frak-all for commenting!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	15. He Is Unsettled

Chapter Fifteen: He Is Unsettled

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Hermione felt a pang of loss when Tom left; to have their conversation cut so short when they had only just begun speaking to one another again seemed cruel somehow. There was still so much left to say, but she didn't begrudge him his abrupt exit. To be honest, if it hadn't been for the troll he likely would have vanished the moment Harry and Ron had burst into the room—hanging around for one of the Professors to see, any of whom could be capable of recognising him, would have been dangerous. The spot beside her still felt unbearably empty, though.

Professor McGonagall burst through the door, followed closely by Snape. They both allowed their gazes to be drawn away from Professor Quirrell—who was slumped against a stall, whimpering—to the unconscious troll sprawled across the floor and the two young Gryffindors standing guiltily before it. Incredulity was writ large across their features.

"Merlin preserve us," McGonagall rallied first. Her lips tightened into a grim line and she turned to Harry and Ron expectantly, demanding, " _What on earth were you boys thinking?"_

Hermione nibbled at her torn lip; she had only a split second to make a decision because the boys were already opening their mouths to fabricate some sort of story. No matter what they said they were likely looking at detention—Harry and Ron were imaginative, but they lacked a certain practicality that might have been useful just now—and that didn't seem fair. Could she possibly come up with anything better, something that deflected attention and made the troll fight seem necessary? She didn't want to directly take the blame herself, because it _wasn't_ her fault that she'd been in the bathroom, but she had to admit that at least some part of the truth could prove useful here. Professor McGonagall was a notoriously strict woman, but she liked Hermione. Perhaps that softspot could be taken advantage of, just this once?

Mind made up, she stepped forward. "I'm sorry, Professor," she said, not having to fake the nervous tremor in her voice—between the adrenaline still coursing through her and the prospect of earning a severe punishment, she felt like she might shake straight out of her own skin. "It's my fault they're here."

Professor McGonagall turned in shock, obviously not having seen her in the corner of the room. "Miss Granger?"

The only truth that the staff was aware of was that Hermione did not get along with the other girls her age, and so that was the truth she would have to give them now—the truth that they would believe—otherwise Ron would seem responsible for this whole mess. "There was a… well, a _disagreement_ with one of the other girls this afternoon, and I reacted poorly." The words tasted sour in her mouth, but it wasn't terrifically different from what had happened, so she buried her guilt. With her lip bleeding and her eyes still swollen from crying most of the day, it didn't take a lot of effort to sell the lie. "I've been in here since the end of second lesson—I didn't know the school was in trouble. Harry and Ron were just coming to warn me." There, that absolved all of them from any wrongdoing, and made the boys seem selfless and heroic rather than just guilty.

Both boys looked momentarily shellshocked, but it was Harry that managed to recover first. "She was already cornered when we got here," he jumped in, "we didn't have much choice other than to try fighting the troll."

Snape was clearly not even listening to the story anymore, and Professor Quirrell was busy doing deep breathing exercises to keep his terror at bay. Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, looked furious. Hermione's implication had been fully received: she was here because she'd been bullied that afternoon. Though she'd been careful not to name any names, it was clear that she didn't have to; Lavender Brown was the obvious suspect. And Professor McGonagall, well she was a woman of principle—the idea that such boorishness existed anywhere within the noble walls of Gryffindor was a black mark against her House, something she would not stand for.

However, her lecture, when it came as assuredly as the sunrise, was somewhat softer than expected. She was strict, but not unsympathetic. In place of any punishment she gave them a firm talking to, trying to impress upon them how reckless they had been. She seemed to realise that there had hardly been any other recourse though, because she didn't deduct any House points—but nor did she award any, which seemed unfair. They were probably the first group of eleven year olds to ever take down a fully grown mountain troll, didn't that deserve some sort of recognition?

After what felt like an eternity, the three students were dismissed with the final warning that the Headmaster would be informed of what had transpired. Hermione had barely taken more than a step before Professor McGonagall called out, "Miss Granger, a moment please?"

She swallowed nervously, her palms suddenly breaking out in a cold sweat. Had her story not been that convincing after all? It had largely been the truth, she'd just substituted out tormentors. What was so unbelievable about that? It was an effort to turn around, to suppress her nervousness, but she did her best to adopt one of Tom's blank expressions when she returned, "Yes, Professor?"

McGonagall drew closer, the hard look in her eyes softening a touch more. When she spoke it was in the same stern tone as ever, but there was also something a little coaxing, a little comforting present as well. "As your Head of House, I want you to know that you can and _should_ come to me any time you're being made to feel _uncomfortable_." Her language was as couched and coded as Hermione's own had been. The word _bullying_ hung unsaid between them, an uncomfortable reality that neither of them exactly wanted to address. "I understand that you may not wish to speak ill of another classmate, but Hogwarts does not tolerate that sort of behaviour. If someone is breaking the rules, it is your duty to report it."

Lavender had certainly earned her ire: for two months the other girl had done nothing but make her feel like the most unattractive, loathsome creature to crawl up from the primordial mud. It would be so easy to whisper her name now, to confirm what the Professor already suspected, and let the chips fall where they may. It was just karma, after all, wasn't it? Lavender's vitriol deserved this sort of reward. "It was just a silly argument, Ma'am," Hermione forced the words out. As nice as it was to picture Lavender serving a week's worth of detention, it just wasn't right to get her in trouble when it was actually Ron's fault she'd been crying. Even with her denial, Lavender would be under scrutiny now, she'd slip up eventually and get her own—punishment was already assured, it was just a matter of when. In light of that, and just wanting the whole situation to be over at this point, Hermione attempted to downplay that afternoon's outburst, "It wasn't serious, just got out of hand is all."

Professor McGonagall studied her for a long minute. There was frustration in her eyes, but under that was a sort of pitying admiration for remaining loyal to a housemate. "Very well," she nodded in resignation. "However, do not hesitate to come to me in the future. As you can plainly see, these sort of _disagreements_ can have consequences more far reaching than imagined." They both took a moment to consider the troll, to marvel anew at just how lucky it was that they'd managed to knock it out. "You're a very bright girl; I would hate to see you in this sort of danger again."

When she was finally allowed to slink off, Hermione was surprised to see Harry and Ron waiting for her in the corridor. They walked toward Gryffindor Tower in an amiable silence, making sure they were well out of earshot before they spoke.

Surprisingly, it was Ron who piped up first. "S-sorry," he stammered, looking pale and uncomfortable. His fingers were twitching along the frayed edges of his sleeves, the very image of an awkward child. "I never meant to put you in danger or anything."

It was rather poor, as far as actual words went. Then again, having grown up as one of the youngest children in such a male dominated family, it was possible Ron had never really been taught how to express himself properly. "It's all right," she shrugged. Because it was, honestly; no one had gotten seriously hurt, they weren't in any trouble, and at long last she could stop chasing after the redhead because the boy had _finally_ come to her. She allowed herself a satisfied smile and continued, "There aren't many pleas for forgiveness quite so grand as knocking out a troll."

Well, that wasn't entirely true; Hermione could think of at least one gesture that had been far more grand. Never in a million years would she forget the sight of Tom kneeling before her, his tall frame arched down, dark gaze trained low as he'd offered her more honesty and earnestness than he'd probably ever given anyone. In that one moment, he'd allowed himself to be stripped of all artifice, vulnerabilities laid bare as he'd _begged_ her for forgiveness. It was humbling to see what she'd done to that clever, intractable boy, to have some measure of assurance that he was just as deeply affected by her as she was by him. What had once been impartial curiosity seemed to have become genuine respect; she wasn't sure how long she could trust that quality to remain, but she did like the change.

In retrospect, she'd sometimes wondered if she'd been little better than a plaything for him, a posable doll for Tom to bend and twist as he'd pleased. He had not understood friendship or kindness when they'd first met, and though an honest affection had developed between them, she realised that his impartial edge had endured until tonight. Tonight, it was as if he'd truly seen her for the first time—not a toy, not a toadie, but a real and complex human being—and he'd been _awed_ by the sight. Gazing up at her with his unfathomable black eyes, Tom had quickly rearranged his own universe, and she had seen the very moment when his gaze had begun to glitter with a new light: _We are equals_. The mere memory of it made her shiver with delight; it had taken three years and countless attitude adjustments, but she'd finally managed to really _connect_ with the guarded, orphan boy.

"Strange, though," her thoughts were interrupted by Harry, "that there was someone else out of their dormitory." His pensive, emerald eyes turned to Hermione curiously. "Who was that boy that was with you?"

Hermione winced internally. She'd known this was coming, of course—you didn't soon forget the face of a person who helped you incapacitate a twelve foot monster. But what could she say? Tom's secret was not really hers to tell; not until they'd had the opportunity to discuss it, anyway. She wasn't precisely comfortable with the amount of lying she'd been forced to do this evening, but there was nothing for it, really. Though she was loathe to do it, it was clear that right now she would have to play dumb. Adopting what she hoped was a decently innocent expression, she hummed and asked, "What boy?"

Harry's eyes sharpened, but if he suspected that she was dissembling on purpose he kept that revelation to himself. Instead, he gave her a confused little smile and clarified, "The one who helped us; he was using the same fire charm as you. Tall, black hair, Slytherin robes?"

She felt like blanching. Harry was unnervingly perceptive in the heat of action; that didn't bode well for the secretive nature of her friendship with Tom. "Oh, him," she hummed again, keenly aware that it was an unseemly tell they might catch on to. Striving for nonchalance, she shrugged, "Don't know, really. He showed up just before the troll did, said he heard me crying from outside the door."

Ron furrowed his brow and shook his head. "You should be careful, Hermione," he said warningly. "Slytherins aren't known for showing concern; they're a pretty untrustworthy lot. I mean, a lone Slytherin wandering the corridors during a feast? You can bet he was up to no good. Who knows what he might have done if we hadn't shown up!"

She had tried her best to keep an open mind about the supposed war between the Houses—what else could she do when her best friend had ended up in the rival camp?—but even she had to admit that there was some merit to Ron's concerns. Had it been any Slytherin from their own time, the troll would have been the least of her worries. Tom was different though, and even if she couldn't really explain why out loud, she still felt compelled to defend him. "I don't think he meant any harm," she replied evenly, aware of how naive that probably sounded to her two new friends, "and he did help us, after all."

Ron looked to be winding up for another round of warnings, but Harry deflected the argument before it could start. "What I'd like to know," he jumped in quickly, excitedly almost, "is how he got out of the room without any of the Professors seeing him. One minute he was there and then the next he was gone!" A speculative look glittered through his eyes, that impishness of his returning when he gave a wicked smile and asked, "Do you think there's a secret passageway in the girls' bathroom?"

Hermione was appalled, "I certainly hope not!" It was a well known fact that there were secret passages scattered all throughout the castle, but no one was really sure how many or where they all laid. She supposed it was entirely possible that some unknown tunnel could lead to and from a bathroom, but the very idea was abhorrent.

Harry and Ron shared a grin at her moral outrage, a warm sense of camaraderie quickly swelling between the three of them.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1938_

Tom spent the rest of his evening searching for information. There were not many books concerning time-travel in the Library, fewer still that addressed his own confusing method of doing it. Exactly none of them provided any insight into how to master and expand his aberrant talent. In fact, according to the scant texts he'd been able to lay his hands on, he shouldn't have been able to travel at will at all—it apparently took years of preparation and several complicated rituals to do what he achieved with a mere thought. And those rituals only ever went backward in time, at that. In short, the meager books were in agreement that his skillset simply shouldn't exist; time-travel was still largely theoretical and he'd already broken completely through the boundaries of what was considered possible. He was flying blind, completely on his own, unless… unless there were more helpful scripts elsewhere in the castle.

The restricted section was beyond his reach; access would require permission from a staff member, and he doubted any professor was likely to give carte blanche to an eleven year old so that he could study some peculiar, extracurricular interests. The Hogwarts Archives, on the other hand, were not so heavily guarded. In addition to the school records, the Archives also contained a wealth of information penned by former Headmasters and renowned scholars; it was possible that somewhere within that hidden morass of tomes was a treatise or two that might prove useful to him. The Seneschal would be happy to see him again—doubly so since he was no longer looking for students that didn't exist—he could just picture the iridescent scales around her eyes tightening in excitement.

That thought suddenly gave him pause. The Seneschal was very likely descended from mermaids and so she had a vaguely reptilian cast to her features, but Tom wasn't sure he'd go so far as to say that she was overtly serpentine in nature. Still though, the thought remained. Was it possible that his ability as a _Snake-Speaker_ , as a Parselmouth, might help him charm her? With the exception of the Milky-Yellow Python—which wasn't a real snake in the truest sense—serpents were drawn to him, inclined to listen and obey. The Seneschal had deeply enjoyed his brief company—perhaps for reasons beyond simple loneliness? If that were true, if he could entice her into helping, then it was possible to get to the restricted section through her; either she could sign permission for him, or collect the materials on his behalf. There was no guarantee that there would be any useful information there, but he wouldn't know until he tried.

He would have to wait for some other day to begin visiting the Seneschal, though. It was nearly curfew already and he wanted to see Hermione again before he lost himself to research. Was she all right? Had that putrescent darkness sensed her, hurt her somehow? It set Tom's teeth on edge not to know, and he found himself having to stay the impulse to travel to her immediately. Passive or imminent, it was clear that she was in danger from this hidden threat—she could already be twisted in pain, screaming for help.

But he _could not_ rush in so soon on the heels of discovery. He had no way of knowing how long she would be in the company of school officials, and the last thing he wanted to do was make a sudden and inexplicable appearance before any adult. The likelihood of the Ministry getting involved in a case concerning time-travel was high—it would cause far too much trouble for him and Hermione. He simply couldn't risk it; they might both be taken from school, locked out of sight and treated like a research experiment. Then again, was that really such a bad idea when the whisper of _Death_ permeated the castle? She would certainly be removed from the danger then, but so would he and being denied their education for a rather dubious sense of safety was just too big of a sacrifice. And yet the uncertainty that she could be in agony this very moment, while he was forced to do little better than wait it out, haunted him.

Tom did not sleep that night. Everytime he closed his eyes, he felt the phantom memory of that hungry darkness surrounding him. It had been thick and pervasive, the sickly edge of decay not diminishing the sheer power he felt there. The sense of familiarity had caught him off guard, and for one very brief moment it felt as if the darkness had swept through him, taking his measure. It had not spoken to him in words—there had been no time—but he had felt its coaxing all the same: _come to me_. The very idea made him shudder in disgust—nothing good could possibly come from obeying that spectre, and he could only hope that if Hermione had felt a similar calling she had the good sense to ignore it.

Dawn, when at long last it arrived, was a relief. Exhausted as he was, he was still glad to abandon any other potential nightmares. He rose from the haunting visions and dressed quickly, practically throwing himself into the future. Much like last night, it belatedly occurred to him that he had no idea where Hermione was or who she was potentially with. If only they could work out some way of communicating while they were apart, then she would be able to tell him when she was alone, when it was safe to appear.

The Abyss consumed him for a full minute—twice the length it had previously—driving him into a steady panic. The nothingness ate away at his sense of control, his sense of self. By the time he rematerialised, he was panting and very nearly shaking. It took a few moments for the warmth of the room around him to permeate his frozen limbs.

Tom found himself in what had to be the Gryffindor Common Room. It was a round affair, draped with rich red and gold tapestries, and outfitted with squashy-looking armchairs. The picture it presented was not quite as stately as Slytherin, but it had an airiness about it that was appealing enough. No one was in the room so early, save Hermione who seemed to be frantically attempting to catch up on an assignment. She was so invested in her work, she hadn't even noticed his arrival.

He took a moment to compose himself, but his heart began racing anew when he remembered the dreams that had plagued him all night. The need to be certain she was unhurt drove him forward. In a flash, he had her up from her chair, running nervous fingers down her arms as he checked her over for injury.

Hermione startled at his abrupt appearance, dropping her quill and a bottle of ink to the floor. Though she didn't seem to understand his urgency, she did not push him away. "This is starting to become a habit with you," she murmured dryly, no doubt thinking of when he'd done much the same the night previous.

When no physical pains made themselves known to him, he tucked his hand below her chin and lifted her gaze to meet his own. He studied her soulful eyes for long minutes, wishing he could understand her thoughts, see the past as she'd seen it in order to better understand what he himself had experienced. There was no malignant kiss of evil lingering about her—whatever it had been was apparently confined to the young Professor—and he got the distinct impression that she hadn't even sensed it as he had. Had the darkness called to him on purpose— _let_ him sense it—or was this just a case of him being unnaturally perceptive?

Her brow furrowed in the wake of his protracted silence. She pulled his grip away from her face but did not let go of him, offering the abstract comfort that small connection might provide. It was her turn to study him, his worry finally making an impression. "Tom, what's wrong?"

He blinked down at her, unsure how to broach the subject at all. A snake had slithered through the grass before them and she'd not noticed the danger coiling mere metres away. How was he meant to point out that threat when she couldn't perceive it as readily as he did? Thoughts whirling, all he managed to get out was a quiet, "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes," she smiled faintly, misunderstanding the question. "The three of us managed to get out of the whole fiasco without earning detentions or losing any House points. Although, really, I don't think it's fair that Professor McGonagall didn't award us anything." She took a step back, pulling out her wand to clean up the shattered mess at their feet. Her tone was conversational, no longer concerned at all. In fact, she sounded downright chagrinned when she continued, "We knocked out a troll for goodness sake, and we haven't even covered those in Defense yet! Surely that's worth at least five measly points?" She was not, by nature, a greedy person, but it seemed that in his absence she'd developed a strong desire for acknowledgement.

McGonagall, he thought distractedly… That name sounded familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. He brushed the wayward pondering aside; he had enough mysteries to contend with already. Instead, he merely pointed out, "Perhaps she considered the lack of punishment reward enough."

Hermione rolled her eyes, nose wrinkling in irritation, but she did agree, "I suppose." Mess taken care of, she pushed her homework aside and pulled him down to sit next to her.

It was tight quarters in the single armchair, but Tom found he didn't mind so much. The gentle heat of her pressing into his side was soothing after his long night of worry. If he'd had any lingering doubts that she'd been injured, they were put to rest in that moment. By and large, neither of them were overly physical creatures—their relationship had always been more intellectual than tactile—yet he found that, after so long apart, these soft and easy touches felt like a necessary reaffirmation of their connection; a way to prove that she was real, that they were together again. And, if he was being perfectly honest, part of it was just the result deprivation: he'd not known how nice it could really feel to be so physically close to a friend; after a young lifetime of that isolation, he found himself starved for the contact. He leaned into her, and if she noticed she had the grace not to mention it. Her left hand quietly slipped into his right, and they took a moment just to enjoy the liberty of each other's presence.

He was tempted to let the moment spiral outward, to let this easy peace define their morning, but there was still so much to say. With an internal sigh, he broke their silence, "Did any of the Professors see me?"

"I don't think so." Hermione turned slightly to look up at him, continuing, "Harry and Ron asked after you, of course, but none of the Professors did—and Snape is Head of Slytherin; so they _must_ not have noticed, otherwise he would have been asking questions."

Tom had a moment to ponder how distasteful it seemed that she was on a first name basis with at least one of the boys that had _put her in harm's way_. She spoke about the pair as if they were her friends, but he couldn't see how one measly troll fight had led to that. However, right now it wasn't really important—her Professor was far more significant. "Snape?" He had to admit that he wasn't very surprised that sort of darkness could permeate and fester inside Slytherin; it was bound to happen with so many hungry individuals grouped together. "Was he the bloke in the turban?"

"In the—?" Her eyes went wide and she began laughing as if he'd told her a particularly amusing story. "No," she suppressed her mirth, but he could still feel her shoulders shaking, "that was Professor Quirrell! He teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts, although _why_ is anyone's guess."

That was an objectively strange answer, particularly since it was _very_ clear to Tom why a man like that might wish to teach such a subject. It was a touch brilliant, actually; he could hide his practitioning of the Dark Arts behind the ready excuse of scholarly pursuit, and any oddity he displayed could be explained away as being in service of better preparing his students. What better way to hide his extracurricular interests than to make them seem like a noble sacrifice? However, Hermione appeared to be under a very different impression of the man, so he forced himself to ask, "What do you mean?"

She nibbled at her lips for a second—a bad habit that would soon split the tiny cut open again—clearly not wishing to speak ill of an authority figure. Eventually, however, she gave in, replying, "He's a very timid, nervous sort of man. His classes are…" Again, she paused, searching for the most inoffensive way to phrase her thought, though she appeared to come up dry. "Well, they're a bit of a joke, really. He's too afraid of his own subject to teach it properly. I heard that he used to teach Muggle Studies, which sounds better suited to his temperament so I'm not sure why he didn't stick to it."

Admittedly, it did seem strange for someone to switch over from such benign pursuits; but if there was one thing Tom understood, it was that the seeds of darkness lay buried in every heart. All Quirrell would have needed was a push—curiosity, desire, intervention—for those seeds to take root. Something had happened to the man, something had changed him irreparably and in such a way that no one else seemed to notice. It was such an odd conundrum to Tom that he couldn't help pushing, "So he doesn't strike you as a particularly dangerous person, then?"

Hermione pulled away slightly and frowned up at him. "Professor Quirrell?" she asked incredulously, apparently unsure they were talking about the same person. "He nearly fainted at the sight of an unconscious troll!" Speculative now, she continued, "No, if I had to pick any Professor that might pose a risk I would say Snape, and even that's a stretch—he's mostly just a bully."

There was no telling what was wrong with the Head of Slytherin, but it was hardly his concern. It had not been _Snape_ that he had spied last night. "Right, but this Quirrell chap—"

"What's going on, Tom?" She pushed further away to get a better look into his eyes, equal parts confused and concerned. "He might be an ineffective Professor, but Quirrell is harmless."

Tom could only shake his head and reply, "I don't think he is."

The disbelief in her gaze turned sharp. "Based on what? You couldn't have seen him for more than a fraction of a second!"

"That was all I needed to sense something off about him," he said evenly, aware that this conversation was not appealing to her rational nature. "Hermione, he's _hiding_ something."

"I don't believe this!" she burst out frustratedly. "Harry was just telling me that he thinks Snape is some sort of clandestine thief and now _you're_ telling me that there's something suspicious about _Professor Quirrell?_ "

Tom shushed her soothingly, not wanting to draw attention from the dormitories. "What better way to hide in plain sight than to make yourself an object of pity?" he asked quietly, pulling her back until they were pressed close once more. "People are so busy cataloguing your faults that they don't have time to suspect you."

Hermione let him rearrange their positioning, but it was clear that what she actually wanted was to jump up and begin pacing. "Of what?" she demanded. "What exactly are you accusing him of?"

"I don't know yet," he replied in frustration, struggling to put his own vague unease into words, "but there was a shadow hanging over him—a powerful miasma that reeked of the grave."

She stilled, carefully considering the implication of his words, before asking, "Do you think he was maybe practising the Dark Arts? They say that leaves a mark on you." Then, apparently unwilling to speak badly of the man, she continued, "And he is the Defense Professor, after all; surely he's tried a spell or two in the interest of academic understanding."

Which was really just an affirmation of what Tom already suspected—Quirrell had made himself a blind spot. He could get away with just about anything, because no one would suspect the Defense Professor of wrongdoing. Equal parts admiring and frustrated, Tom simply shook his head and replied, "This was big, Hermione, deliberate. And it almost seemed… self-aware."

She frowned up at him. "That's an awful large assumption considering how little time you were in the same room." But he could see the doubt clouding her eyes now.

"I know what I felt," he said firmly, confidently.

At his insistence, Hermione appeared to give the situation a little further consideration. "I've heard of possessions before," she told him, linking her arm through his own, "but the victim's behaviour is always noticeably erratic. Professor Quirrell's demeanor all term has been nothing short of consistent."

" _Unfailingly_ consistent?" he challenged. "Timid people still have moments of bravery, you know; there's more to a person than just one notable characteristic." Tom shook his head once more, and gently elbowed her in the side to be sure she was paying attention. "It sounds to me like any Defense Professor who's afraid of a troll that isn't even conscious—one that was knocked out by a group of _First Years_ , no less—is really just playing an elaborate game of pretend. Otherwise, how did he even get his job in the first place? He had to display some level of competency in order to get the post, or he'd still be teaching Muggle Studies."

She cocked her head in that inquisitive way of hers, and though she seemed to be adopting at least some of his suspicions, all she said was, "I find this very hard to believe."

"I'm not saying he's an immediate threat," Tom replied, "but I'm also not discounting the possibility. Just keep an eye out for him, all right?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, turns out Quirrell's not quite so slick as he thought! (Sorry for not updating last week, everyone; work turned into complete madness for about two weeks there!)
> 
> As always, endless gratitude to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, particularly to FreyaFallen, earedien, ArchiveIlana, Alexandraya, Jayenn, Azhwi, and CLKit for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	16. He Is Hesitant

Chapter Sixteen: He Is Hesitant

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Hermione and Tom slipped out of the Common Room, not wanting to risk discovery should other students begin rising soon; she knew for a fact that Percy would start bustling about within a matter of moments. Instead, they wandered the deserted corridors, chatting idly, catching up on the past two months. The mystery of Quirrell hung strangely between them; however, knowing that their morning together would very soon drawn to a close made it easy to stick to lighter topics. She told him all about her classmates—the good and the bad—about Hagrid and her Professors and her vague disappointment that the general atmosphere around Hogwarts was not more academically-minded. He told her about how boring his lessons seemed, how dull his own classmates had proven to be, and made a few vague references to the idea that the only thing keeping him interested in his current studies at all, rather than merely working ahead on his own, was the opportunity to tutor other First Years.

Eventually though, Hermione could not help herself—there had been one question burning her tongue since last night and she simply had to ask. "Can I tell them?"

"Well, that's not cryptic or anything," Tom replied wryly, arching one dark brow at her. "Can you tell what to whom?"

Even now, she knew it was a terrible idea to broach the subject, particularly since she already knew his thoughts on the matter. The question was out though, and it seemed like a terrible opportunity to waste, so she pressed ahead anyway. "Can I tell Harry and Ron about you?" she clarified. "I don't like having to lie to them so much."

He sighed heavily, looking up in exasperation for a brief moment. "Hermione, we've talked about this before—"

"And I didn't like lying to my parents, either," she cut him off firmly. It had never sat well with her, but she'd understood his hesitations at the time. Of course, he'd presented them as worries about getting caught sneaking out of his orphanage, which was patently false. Without asking, she had to assume that his real concern had been attracting the attention of authority figures, a worry which did not translate into this situation. Harry and Ron were both First Years as well, and Tom had never once seemed bothered by revealing himself to anyone from her primary school. How was this any different? "It was easy to hide a secret friend from my parents—they never asked a lot of questions because they were just happy that I had some sort of companionship—but my friends and _housemates_ are bound to notice something."

Tom stopped short, suddenly rooted to the spot. " _Friends?"_ he spat disbelievingly. "How can they _possibly_ be your friends? They've spent the last two months ignoring or antagonising you by turns!"

"Don't change the subject," she warned, stopping as well. When she turned to address him, the look on his face gave her pause—he was completely gobsmacked and quickly turning thunderous. She refused to relent, however; if he said no then that was that, but she wanted a straight answer either way. "Can I tell them?"

"They're not _my_ friends, Hermione," he sneered, giving her a dark look. "How can you be so sure that they're even worth your time or trustworthy enough for mine?"

If pressed, she would guess that his question had less to do with Harry and Ron's moral fibre and more to do with Tom's own sense of jealousy. Knowing that, she gave the empty question a suitably empty answer, "Gryffindors stand by people." He was not at all pleased by those words, so she attempted to redirect his attention, needling, "Besides, what are you so afraid of, Tom?"

"From them?" he asked, clearly taken aback. " _Nothing_. But a pair of loose lips could gain the attention of a Professor. Even assuming that a staff member didn't automatically contact the Ministry, you can bet that they would do their best to separate us." He slipped his long-fingered hand into hers and began strolling down the corridor again. "Is that what you want?" he demanded unsympathetically. "An indefinite repeat of the last two months?"

There wasn't a single thing that Hermione desired less, but she didn't see how they could hope to maintain the status quo, either. "No," she explained, squeezing his hand reassuringly, "but I also don't want to lose my two new friends when they doubtlessly grow suspicious over the Slytherin boy they will likely keep catching glimpses of." It would be disastrous—both boys were inherently inquisitive and would interrogate her for weeks about where she was disappearing off to and why they kept seeing flashes of her socialising with a _snake_. "I'm not saying you have to meet Harry and Ron, just let me explain the situation to them." If there was no mystery to it, then the circumstances would eventually become commonplace and they would lose interest.

Tom glanced sideways at her, considering. "Why are you so scared to lose them? You aren't alone, Hermione," his grip tightened, as if afraid that she would disappear should he let her go, "you've got me."

She had understood from the outset that her friend was a very isolated boy and, though they had grown immeasurably close, he had never seemed quite as affected by loneliness as she was. He desired _only_ her company, but she had always wanted more. How was she meant to explain that without making it sound as if he was somehow deficient on his own? "Yes," she said slowly, "but I only see you for a very small part of the day—not even most days, at that—and you're not in any of my classes."

"Apparently most of the curriculum hasn't changed enough for that to matter; we're still covering essentially the same topics at the same time," he argued, and his meaning was clear—they could still do their homework together, still explore the boundaries of their magic just as they always had. Nothing had to change. "Besides," he continued, voice dropping softly, "you know those two won't be able to keep up with you academically, and they _will_ resent that in the long run. In fact, if even half of what you've told me is true, Weasley _already_ resents it." Whether he was playing devil's advocate on purpose was debateable, but he seemed to realise how mean it sounded because he then joked, "How you didn't end up in Ravenclaw, I'll never know."

She was determined not to be sidetracked. "But they're my housemates! We _should_ be friends!"

He pulled her closer, tucking her under one arm. He'd been unusually tactile and affectionate today, but she found that she quite liked it—it was a comfort that she had keenly missed from home.

"This wouldn't be a problem if you'd been sorted into Slytherin," Tom replied, but there was something about the sentiment that rang false—not necessarily that he was lying to her, but more like he couldn't bring himself to say what he really meant.

Hermione had a feeling that she knew what he wanted to say, though. "If I'd been born in your time, you mean," she corrected quietly, burrowing herself deeper into his side. Now that she truly understood the full magnitude of the distance separating them, their friendship felt like it was under a certain amount of pressure—pressure that could have been immediately relieved if only they both lived in the same year. "It's not exactly as if any of the Slytherins here are all that friendly. They don't seem to like anyone who's not a Pureblood, and even then it's pretty thin. In fact," she continued the thought to its logical conclusion, more as a distraction than anything else, "Slytherins don't seem to like anyone except for other Slytherins. It's a wonder you even put up with me."

"Well," he chuckled, a touch sarcastic now, "I knew you _before_ we were sorted."

"Oh, well, thanks," she muttered dryly. "That's a load off my mind."

He looked down at her in another one of his slanted, sideways glances. It was impossible to read his thoughts, to know what he saw of her, but something made him proclaim, "The thought still stands, though. You would have made a good snake." She had a feeling that the words were spoken more out of loneliness than anything else; he wanted her close by and was self-aware enough to realise that he'd probably make a terrible Gryffindor.

But the thought was interesting, on the surface. What would it have been like to end up in a different House? The Sorting Hat had very much liked the idea of Ravenclaw, though it had noted that she was a bit too reckless and determined to really enjoy herself there. At the time, she had been deeply in awe of the famous names that had come through noble Gryffindor, had wanted to touch some of that greatness herself, and so that was where she had asked to go. The Hat had never mentioned Slytherin and she had never asked; even then, she had understood that people like her did not end up in the House of Serpents. "I don't think I meet the criteria," she acknowledged out loud.

"What, cunning? Ambition?" Tom shook his head mockingly, as if to say _don't be thick_. "You've got them in spades. If you were in my time," he pondered almost dreamily, his arm tightening around her shoulders, "I would drag you to my Common Room so often that you might as well have been sorted a Slytherin."

Hermione couldn't help snorting at his little daydream. "You realize our Houses are rivals, don't you?" she asked sardonically. "They have been for over a thousand years."

"Trivial," he smiled brightly. "Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor were supposedly close friends for the better part of their lives. Are we not meant to follow in their footsteps?" It would have been an admirable sentiment if not for his obvious desire to be a contrarian. He spoke the words only in an effort to be different.

For her part, she was halfway through pondering that ancient friendship when it dawned on her how far off course their conversation had gotten. "You distracted me," she accused hotly, sending him an irritated glare.

His humour, shallow as it was, dropped immediately, but his tone was still light and airy when he replied, "Apparently, not well enough."

"Please, Tom," she wheedled, aware that she was dangerous close to whinging. "I really like these two; don't force a wedge between us." Keeping a secret as big as Tom's would naturally build a wall around her. She would never be able to get as close to others as she wanted, because a part of her would always have to remain aloof. Not to mention the fact that they would eventually realise something was off and would likely be hurt that she chose not to confide in them about it. "You are my best friend," she continued to appeal, "but you know what primary school was like for me. I cannot do that again. I want to _know_ people; surely you feel a similar desire for friendship?"

" _You_ are my friend, which is one more than I honestly ever expected to make." He seemed pained by her stark earnestness, but he kept a tight leash on his temper. She couldn't blame him for his frustration; she knew she was asking an awful lot. Catching sight of the hopeful, pleading look on her face, he closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, relenting, "If it's that important to you, then I'll think about it. But take heed now," he warned her in a tone that brooked no argument, "I _will not_ change my stance on adults, not even muggles. It's just too risky."

Hermione was elated. "They're trustworthy boys, Tom, I swear," she promised in a rush, although a part of her was aware that she hadn't actually known the two boys long enough to make that judgement.

"If they're to be told about me, we'll have to ensure so," Tom replied darkly. Then, apparently unable to help himself, added, "I don't like this, Hermione."

She wrapped her arms around his middle and gave him a tight, albeit brief, hug. "But you _will_ think about it?"

"For you," he promised, returning the gesture. His tone was clearly aggravated, but she got the impression he was still being honest with her. "If we go through on it, it will be your responsibility to keep an eye on them."

His phrasing was strange—he made it sound as if she'd just been begging to get a puppy. She was well aware that his generosity here was just an effort to appease her, but the idea that he might think about Ron and Harry as little better than _pets_ made her uncomfortable. "You won't regret it," she vowed quietly, shaking the disturbing thought aside. "They are very sweet when you get down to the heart of them." Probably.

He laughed humorlessly, obviously still a little put out. "That sounds unbearably naive, but I'll defer to your judgement for now." He paused for a weighty second, then turned to face her before firmly adding, "I _will_ want to meet them, though."

"Are you sure that's wise?" she asked, holding back a grimace. In the grand scheme of things, she was still learning about Harry and Ron, but she could already tell that they were _very_ different people from her time-traveling companion. She honestly couldn't picture the three of them in the same room without some sort of argument breaking out.

"Probably not," Tom confirmed with a genuine chuckle, "but bringing them into your life makes them a part of mine as well." He raised a brow at her. "Why so nervous? You're not embarrassed by me, are you?"

"No!" she burst out immediately, struggling to find the right words to voice her concern. "It's just, well… you're—"

"A Slytherin?" he supplied knowingly.

Hermione sighed in resignation. "Ron has some very solid ideas on that matter." She didn't necessarily put a lot of stock in the House rivalry, but Ron was from a very old family and seemed convinced that anyone who came through Slytherin was a murderer-in-waiting. In his defense, Slytherin didn't exactly have a glowing reputation, and that would make it all the harder to get him to set aside his prejudices for Tom's sake.

"I don't doubt that he would usually be right," Tom shrugged, unconcerned with having just casually slandered his own House, "but in this instance he'll simply have to get over it. What about the other boy?"

"Harry?" She thought hard for a moment. "He _loathes_ Malfoy and Snape, but I don't think he really has an opinion on any of the other Slytherins. Besides, he seems to enjoy mysteries and oddities—he might be quite taken with your circumstances, to be honest."

And that seemed to be that, as far as their conversation went. What it meant for the future was a little uncertain. Tom could still back out, although from the steely set of his jaw, she had a feeling that he wouldn't. As Hermione sat at the breakfast table—long after they had finished chatting and bid their farewells—the magnitude of their plan struck her. Was it safe for Tom to meet two more people from the 'future'? The more her friend was exposed to people and things he should not know, the more likely it was that he would somehow change the timeline. And yet, the same argument could be made in regards to her own relationship with him; how could she be so forgiving of one situation and nervous about another? In all probability, Tom had _already_ changed the timeline—if, in fact, such a thing were even possible—so what did it matter if it changed even more? She couldn't forgive her own influence in his life, but then blithely condemn the idea of him meeting her other friends; that was just hypocritical. And, to be perfectly honest—though she knew it would be a hard-fought battle for everyone to remain civil—a part of her was excited at the idea of all four of them hanging out together.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1938_

Tom was distracted all throughout Herbology—not that the Professor seemed to notice—his thoughts often wandering forward in time to be with Hermione. She'd put him in an unfortunate position with her request. On the one hand, he could acknowledge that her plea was both a logical and reasonable favour to ask for; humans were essentially social creatures, and her behaviour in this was expected, if not downright predictable. However, on the other hand, he was incensed by the very idea of not only revealing himself but, more importantly, being forced to share her attentions. What could she possibly gain from those two boys that he himself was not already providing her with?

From the murky recesses of his thoughts again came the idea that the only way to have her companionship to himself was to isolate her. And the only way to truly isolate her would be to cut her off from all other social avenues—to bring her into his own time, where he would be her single point of familiarity. He had struggled with the idea before, after several years of observing how much influence her family had over her, but he had eventually come to terms with the fact that her parents did her more good than harm by providing her with a level of safety and comfort he was not in a position to offer. Never before had he had to worry about boys his own age appealing to her—he had met her in the midst of a pre-existing social structure, where she had largely been considered a pariah. He had failed to take into account that Hogwarts would be a blank slate, an ocean caught in a constant tide of shifting alliances, and in his regrettable absence she had formed new bonds. It was his own fault, really, which meant it had to be his own hand to rectify the situation; he could acquiesce to her desires for now, but that didn't mean he would give up on his time-travelling research.

Distantly, he felt a little guilty about his high-handed attitude, particularly so soon after their reconciliation. The trust Hermione had given him was a precious and fragile thing; if she could only hear his thoughts now, he had no doubt she would walk away from their friendship for good. It was utterly selfish of him, he could acknowledge that, but he could also justify the desire to displace her in time as an act of protection. Her Hogwarts had been invaded by a grim unknown. Whether it was actually her Professor or some entity working through him was irrelevant, because in either case the danger was still apparent. There was no way for him to know who was trustworthy in her time, who she was and wasn't safe from—and it didn't inspire a lot of confidence that he had sensed some of that errant familiarity off of one of the boys she'd decided to take under her wing. Fragile trust or no, he simply couldn't stop himself from pursuing the research; a part of him was eerily certain that understanding how to manipulate time-travel might one day become a dire necessity.

Tom was lucky enough to have a break between lessons that afternoon, and so he used his spare time to visit the Archives. The Seneschal was delighted to see him again. She was alone in the antechamber, idly flipping through a copy of _Fur, Feather, and Scale_ as she frittered her lonely hours away. A bewitchingly lovely smile split her normally sharp features when she finally caught sight of him. "You came back," she sighed melodiously, equal parts surprised and hopeful.

He could not begin to imagine the isolation she faced in a post that no one seemed to know existed. Between visiting scholars and flustered students, how often did she honestly have company? It couldn't be nearly often enough, seeing how taken she was with him after he'd only visited perhaps two or three times. However, her tragedy was his fortune—if he could not get through to her in Parseltongue, then he would at least still be able to flatter his way into her good graces. Her hermitage made her vulnerable, and he was certainly not above taking advantage of that, not when she had the potential to get him the materials that he really needed.

With that in mind, he gave her a winning smile of his own. "I'm often finding myself in the midst of unusual research," he told her softly, hoping that she found boyish precociousness endearing. "This seemed like the place to come for answers, especially since you were so helpful last time."

She waved him over, inviting him to the seat beside her. Her willowy stature dwarfed his own height even while seated, yet she bent down to be closer to his eye level. When she spoke her voice was teasing, but the words held an undercurrent of curiosity, "You're very young to have so many serious inquiries."

Tom had always hated that sort of attitude, and it was an effort to keep it from showing on his face. Why did so many people feel that learning was not an age appropriate activity? How was he meant to grow if he was held off at every turn? There was absolutely no benefit to willful ignorance, and yet everyone around him seemed to go out of their way to promote it. He could forgive that attitude in London, but he had not expected it in the wizarding world as well—particularly when there was just _so very much_ to be discovered.

He pushed his anger aside and gave a shrug. "I don't see what age matters in the pursuit of knowledge."

And, despite having spawned the whole train of thought, the Seneschal appeared to understand. "You remind me of the mermaid pups," she reminisced fondly, "always curious, always asking questions."

"So you _are_ a mermaid, then?" he asked, instantly latching on to her words. He had expected her to be more secretive on the matter for some reason. But then again, looking as she did, he supposed secrecy wasn't really all that practical.

"Partly," she nodded.

He'd never really considered the implications of that before, but the idea was intriguing. How many humanoid creatures out there were capable of producing offspring with mankind? Did the hybrids receive wizarding magic, did they have their own brand of powers, or did they exist somewhere in between? Were the majority of them capable of higher thought or were they merely bestial? He had to stop those ponderings cold though, regardless of how interesting they were, or else he would lose the thread of the conversation.

The Seneschal was in an indulgent mood, a fact that might ease the way for him to explore the thought he'd had last night—whether or not mermaids were at all related to snakes. With that hypothesis firmly in place, he attempted to keep their discussion firmly fixed on her heritage. "I've seen them from the Common Room," he said, thinking of the dark shadows that glided serenely past Slytherin's windows, "but I've never actually met one before."

She shook her head and chuckled, as if meeting her kind was the last thing he should want to do. "You would find it very difficult to understand a full-blooded mermaid," she replied. "Their language is half beautiful melody and half banshee-like shrieking."

"I'm pretty good at languages, actually," he put in offhandedly, marveling at how easy she had made this. He hadn't even needed to direct the conversation; she'd brought up what he wanted to talk about on her own!

"Oh?" she asked, not altogether disinterested, but clearly skeptical that any such talent could extend to more exotic realms.

Tom was only too happy to prove her wrong. "For instance," he carried on brightly, "as far back as I can remember, I've been able to speak in… Well, how to put it?" He paused for effect, then switched over to Parseltongue, allowing his voice to draw out in rolling sibilations, " _Ah, yes—in a tongue of hisses and whispers._ "

She frowned and cocked her head confusedly. "Did you just say something about kisses and vipers?"

Her misunderstanding was comical, to say the least; not so very different from the city tourists that he'd often heard mangling English. "Not quite, no," he drawled, unable to keep the bemusement off his face.

"I have heard the Sirens sigh in a language like that. I am related to them so I understand a little," the Seneschal explained, then chuckled derisively and added, "though obviously not as well as I thought."

"Sirens?" It was Tom's turn to cock his head. "I thought that was just another name for mermaids."

"No," she murmured, flipping through the pages of her book until she came to the desired entry, "though many do believe it. They are our Mediterranean cousins, more beautiful than we, at least on the surface."

She wasn't wrong. The illustration in _Fur, Feather, and Scale_ depicted a shockingly pleasing creature. The siren was overtly feminine, svelte and yet rounded in the most womanly places. Her face was sweetly innocent, surrounded by cascades of loosely curling hair—the overall effect was angelic, an idea that was lent further credence by a pair of massive, bird-like wings. And yet, even in the picture, he could sense a curious wrongness, an edge of deception. This creature was not so gentle as it looked. He ran a finger down the swell of the siren's cheek, asking the Seneschal, "And below that surface?"

She pointed to the siren's slitted pupils and laughed, seeming to take pleasure in the hidden nature of her distant cousins. "Do not let their pretty plumage and comely features fool you; they are snakes at heart."

"Curious," he murmured. At least it explained this pseudo-failure in communication; she was snake enough to hear his words, but too distantly related to truly understand them. Then, belatedly, it occurred to him that he had admitted to his own ignorance concerning sirens, making him flush darkly as he hurried to excuse the lapse in knowledge, "I was raised in the muggle world, you see—I'm only just starting to learn these things."

The Seneschal's mouth nearly fell open in shock. "In the muggle world? But you are a Parselmouth!" she insisted, as if somehow those two qualities could not coincide. "How can this be?"

Tom rarely found himself unable to follow a conversation, but the woman beside him was no longer making any sense. She knew he was an orphan—where had she thought he'd grown up? "I don't understand," he conceded, hating the words even as he appreciated their necessity.

"You came to me once looking for family," she explained, oceanic eyes glittering with excitement. "I believe now that we were searching in entirely the wrong place. Wait here." The soft command had barely left her lips before she was disappearing beyond the sealed door of the Archives. Several long moments crept by—long enough for him to wonder what was going on—but she re-emerged before he grew too restless. In her pale blue hands she carried a thick tome entitled _Silver-Tongued: The Compendium of Parselmouths_ , which she unceremoniously handed to him. "This may shed some light on the matter." She smiled secretively as he browsed the index, but before he could inquire as to what she was so giddy about the expression had dropped into a frown. "Have you told anyone else about your power?"

"No," he shrugged, turning back to the book. While he was almost certain that his fellows in Slytherin would be impressed with his ability, he had wanted to research the topic before revealing himself—particularly since it had not gone so agreeably when he'd received his Letter. "Well," he amended, remember the tense way his Transfiguration Professor had flinched, "excepting Dumbledore, I suppose."

That news did not sit well with her. "And he did not direct you here?" she demanded incredulously. He didn't even manage to open his mouth before she waved the question away, continuing in a haughty and irritated sneer, "No, of course he wouldn't, overprotective man that he is." Though a measure of respect was still apparent, she was the first person he'd ever met who didn't seem to think that Dumbledore was the most impressive man in all of Great Britain. There was clearly a history there that she was struggling to set aside, a battle that she eventually won. Her eyes softened as she glanced between him and the book, and when she spoke again her musical tone had turned purposefully comforting, "It is no fault of your own, but the ability to speak in Parseltongue is widely considered Dark Magic."

Tom couldn't see the sense in that, and didn't mind saying so. "Why?"

"Association, most likely," the Seneschal replied with a sad smile. "The majority of known Parselmouths were, by coincidence, steeped deeply into the Dark Arts."

That was an interesting thought. Was the ability to speak to snakes inherently corruptive, or were the people who could do so simply predisposed to darkness? He was self-aware enough to admit that he wasn't exactly the paragon of moral upstanding and never would be, but nor was he the festering evil that he had sensed in the future. "Do _you_ believe it's Dark Magic?"

She barely paused to consider the question, replying, "It is an inborn talent, how could it be evil? Nature is not good or bad, and it will not bow to the human concept of moral idealism. Some animals are born with fangs and claws; that does make them monsters, merely predators. The mermaids, for example," she gestured to herself, to her deceptively sharp teeth and the throat that produced subversively relaxing melodies, "we were given voices to lull and seduce our prey—no one can really blame us for that, because it is simply in our nature." In a show of bravery, or perhaps solidarity, she laid her hand atop his dark hair and explained, "We cannot condemn the predator for following its instincts anymore than we can condemn you for being born as you are."

He considered her words carefully. It was a point of view he could appreciate, although he wasn't naive enough to assume many others would share it. He certainly wasn't going to start feeling badly or apologetic over one of his favourite talents, but it did throw the idea of whether he should share that skill with anyone into question. Clearly, he would have to study this _Compendium of Parselmouths_ very carefully before he made any decisions. "This isn't what I came for," he finally replied, running his fingers over the gilded edges of the thick tome, "but thank you all the same. It will prove an interesting read, I'm sure."

His mermish companion made a sound of surprise, obviously having lapsed on the reason for his visit. "Ah, yes," she smiled, retaking her seat. "I forgot about your curious project."

A part of Tom was worried that he was biting off more than he could chew. After all, he already had his schemes with Andrus and Alphard, his burgeoning relationships with the Ravenclaws and a trio of Gryffindors from the future, the very real worry that Hermione's Defense Professor was actually a Dark wizard in disguise, and now this book of Parselmouths to read, all while still giving his regular studies their due attention. Adding his research about time-travel on top of all that was probably stretching himself too thin, but he didn't wish to set any of it aside for later. So, despite acknowledging his vague misgivings, he still asked, "I was wondering if your Archives had any material concerning time-travel?"

"That _is_ unusual," the Seneschal frowned, thinking the matter over. "I will have to consult the index—it may take quite some time."

Surprisingly, that news was actually a bit of a relief; it would at least give him the opportunity to advance some of his other ploys before having to adopt this new one. "I'll come back later then, shall I?"

"Give me a few days; I will collect for you what I can," she hummed, briefly taking back _Silver-Tongued_ in order to check it out of the Archives for him. "I'll warn you now, however: what I find may not be much, though hopefully sufficient for idle curiosity."

Feeling an ounce of kinship with this strange and morally ambivalent creature, he gave her a wicked grin and teased, "Who said it was idle?"

"I will pretend I did not hear that," she replied primly, though he could tell she was amused. Ushering him from the antechamber, she warned, "Keep yourself out of trouble, _Little Speaker_." Her attempt at a serpentine hiss was somewhat garbled, but the sentiment came through well enough. Perhaps, in time, he could help her improve her language abilities.

With a final wave, he exited, leaving the Library entirely. His break was almost over—the book would have to wait until after Charms—but he figured there was enough time left to track down Andrus. It was unlikely that the other boy had made any progress over a single night, but it didn't hurt to add a bit of pressure to his cause. Lestrange was the slippery sort, after all, and a little stress might help set him more quickly into action.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Harry and Ron don't even know what they're in for.
> 
> As ever, my undying gratitude to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to frak-all, Angrypixels, earedien, and Jayenn for commenting!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	17. He Is A Parselmouth

Chapter Seventeen: He Is A Parselmouth

_Hogwarts, 1938_

It was a lucky thing that he had visited with Lestrange before opening _Silver-Tongued_ , because there would not have been time afterward. The book consumed him, kept him reading deep into the night and during all his spare minutes between lessons the next day. As he'd been warned, with very few exceptions the witches and wizards in _The Compendium_ had been practitioners of the Dark Arts. That, however, was not the detail that really grabbed his attention: every Parselmouth in the book was a person of great significance—inventors, alchemists, politicians conquerors. It was a disproportionate amount of fame for a relatively small group of people, unless one took into account the author's opinion. Whoever had penned the text made no secret of the fact that they considered _Speakers_ to be of superior ancestry—that their success was only natural since, according to him, the ability to speak Parseltongue was purely hereditary and could only come through direct descent from Salazar Slytherin's own bloodline.

This was certainly news to Tom, but it did shed some light on a few lingering questions he'd had—like why the Seneschal had seemed so sure this book would provide him with familial connection, or why the Head of Gryffindor might be uncomfortable in the presence of a _Speaker_. Or even how, without any sort of proven pedigree, he'd ended up in the bloodline-obsessed House in the first place. The Sorting Hat's words came back to him, less vague now that he understood the context; when it had said that Slytherin was in his blood it had meant the actual Slytherin himself. The Hat had proclaimed the House his destiny, not because other family members had potentially resided there as well, but because in some way or another he was _related_ to its Founder.

The idea filled him with wicked satisfaction. Oh, how the Slytherins would choke on their egos and pride! Not even the purest among them would be able to claim the one bloodtie that they would all kill to have—that honour would be Tom's alone. How many of them would regret their sneering ambivalence, their barely concealed contempt of his presence? How many would be able to swallow down their bilious, arrogant attitudes long enough to acknowledge the Half-Blooded Heir of Slytherin? He longed to find out, to watch them squirm and twist in discomfort as they realised that the little orphan boy they had shunned actually had the most infamous relative of all to invoke. However, the idea gave him pause; while it was true that his notoriety within his own House would increase exponentially, if it got out that he was a Parselmouth it could damage his reputation with the rest of the school. _Snake-Speakers_ weren't exactly regarded fondly, but then again neither were Slytherins in general and he was already breaking a number of boundaries in that regard.

It had never happened to him before, but in this instance Tom actually wished he had an adult figure that he could talk the situation over with. Slughorn was the natural choice, being his Head of House, but his discretion could not be trusted; the man was a voracious gossip. He could always speak to the Seneschal, but her perspective was uniquely alien and he wasn't sure what regard she might have for things like reputation. The only adult that left him with then was Dumbledore—on the one hand, his Professor already knew his secret and had kept it for some weeks now, but on the other hand that knowledge had clearly not sat well with the man. Without being able to trust the authority figures around him, Tom's thoughts inevitably turned to Hermione. Though only eleven, she had always been insightful; the problem, of course, was that she didn't know he could talk to snakes, and he still wasn't entirely certain how she would react to this talent of his. In the end, what could Tom do? He had always kept and prefered his own counsel, but it was getting harder to remain objective when he had so many different plans going on, harder to see the shape of everything and to know what path he should take to achieve his goals. A pair of outside eyes would not have been remiss, and without involving Hermione the closest thing he had to a confidant was Andrus Lestrange.

Finding the older boy was easy; he had secluded himself into a corner of the Common Room, busily working on what looked like a monstrous essay. A few of his more distant cousins hovered nearby—possibly the Rosiers although, to be honest, Tom could scarcely tell them apart from the Carrows; the Pureblood families tended to share far too many features—but Andrus ignored them in favour of his work. He scribbled without pause, not even bothering to look up when his ersatz companion drew close. "You're testing your good fortune, Riddle," he warned, briefly jabbing his quill in the direction of his cousins. "People will begin to talk."

Tom came to a stop beside him and offered the other boy a twisted smile. Had he not already come for an express purpose, he might have found the usual Slytherin attempt at verbal sparring amusing. Today, however, would have to be a more direct confrontation—he was too impatient to waste time navigating their empty flattery and circuitous conversations. "You said I'd earned myself a couple of minutes."

"Two days ago," Lestrange replied with a hollow chuckle. "You've long since spent it. I'd hardly be of any use to you if I fall into disfavour."

Tom idly twirled his wand in one long-fingered hand; the gesture was considered somewhat rude in company, particularly among the Purebloods, but he doubted the Second Year cared much. "Perhaps I could buy myself a little more time?"

Andrus finally looked up, and he must have read something in the younger boy's calm demeanor because he suddenly appeared deeply interested. "With what?"

His smile twisted wider; in the scant minutes it had taken to find the Second Year, he had decided that making his claim wouldn't provide as much of an impact as simply proving it. "I want to show you something," he replied mysteriously. When the older boy reached to gather up his work, Tom waved him off and continued, "No, don't bother; this will only take a few minutes." The fact that Lestrange still warily grabbed his wand almost felt like a mark of respect.

Suspicious eyes watched the two boys slip from the Common Room. No doubt the whispers would begin within moments of their departure. Despite his protests, Lestrange was too well connected to really worry about his reputation, and Tom knew that increased interest would only help his own cause in the end.

They walked together through the confusing labyrinth of the dungeons, further and further from Slytherin and, it felt, further and further from civilisation. The walls in this part of the castle were ancient, likely the foundation of some pre-existing fortress the Founders had decided to build their school on top of. Cobwebs and dust hung heavily around them—the rooms and halls this deep into the dungeon had clearly not been used in generations.

Lestrange started to get nervous after several silent minutes, perhaps keenly feeling the distance between him and any potential allies. There was no one buried this far below the castle, save for the boy who had led him there. "Where the bloody hell are you taking me?" he finally asked, gripping his wand tightly. "There's nothing down in this part of the dungeon."

"Oh Andrus," Tom crooned silkily, "you're not _afraid_ , are you?" He was enjoying his companion's discomfort. The familiar thrill of power shivered through him, reminding him of those beautiful moments he had spent in the Seaside Cave so very long ago. Ever since arriving at Hogwarts, he'd felt like a shadow of his former self, impulses and habits ruthlessly curbed until it scarcely felt like he could even move without meeting some sort of resistance. As much as he'd hated Wool's, he'd always been perversely free to act however he'd liked there. He had no intention of harming his companion, but he was far too greedy for this sip of former glory to put Lestrange's worries to rest.

He needn't have bothered in any case, for they soon reached their destination. In an effort to relieve his boredom he had taken to periodically exploring the castle, seeking out the little nooks and crannies that time had forgotten. This particular stretch of the dungeon was filled with abandoned classrooms—archaic Potion labs standing as a testament to both how much _and_ how little the school had changed over its vast history. The room he led Andrus into was perhaps more cluttered than favourable, but it would serve his purpose. He had found the place only last week and had immediately liked it for its unique, reverse-stadium style architecture.

Lestrange took in the old lab—the vast expanse that could have easily fit at least two year's worth of students, the heavy marble worktops, the almost throne-like podium that bore Slytherin's initials—and shifted from foot to foot apprehensively. "What's this all about?"

Tom smiled once more, walking along the slow spiral of stairs that led up to the centre of the room. "It occurred to me that I have a very easy way to gain the approval of Slytherin House, but I'm not entirely certain what the reaction to my method may be," he replied, stopping when he neared the apex just in front of the podium. "You're here to field test that for me."

The older boy scowled but stayed put, muttering in irritation, "I'm an experiment, you mean."

Tom shrugged the words off and raised his wand questioningly. He had read far enough ahead to have the perfect spell ready for today.

Lestrange fought with himself for a moment, but his curiosity eventually won out. "Fine," he sighed heavily, taking great strides to make his unease look like mere indulgence, "get it over with. At least if you maim me, I won't have to finish that essay for Dumbledore."

His wand cut through the air in a hard arc as he intoned, "Serpensortia." Watching the handsome viper appear from the aether filled Tom with an intense satisfaction. He'd been ambivalent to the idea of wands at first, worrying that it would merely provide a crutch that would impede his magic, but he'd quickly grown to love it. The bone-like stick of yew had opened the door to possibilities he'd never considered—there were so many different types of magic, and each spell came to him faster and stronger than they would have without the wand.

Andrus drew in a sharp breath as the snake approached him, backing up several steps when it came too close. He was doing his best to remain calm, but he'd gone very pale and a nervous sweat had broken out along his hairline. By the time the viper came within arms-reach, it seemed he'd had enough—Lestrange drew his wand just as his back hit one of the ancient workbenches.

It was a bit of an overreaction in Tom's opinion; the snake wasn't even bothering with any threat displays, just serenely gliding forward. Hardly worth getting so worked up over, really. Still, he had prepared for this. Though basic dueling spells weren't on the curriculum until next year, he'd found them interesting enough to pursue in his free time. He hadn't really had the opportunity to practise any of them, but this seemed like the perfect opportunity to test at least one. He quickly cast the Disarming Charm; the spell hit true, although it must not have been cast correctly because Andrus's wand just barely slipped from his fingers to the floor. Tom was so busy contemplating what had gone wrong that he almost missed the small noise of fright the older boy made.

"Riddle, what are you doing?" Lestrange asked, voice high and strained. He could have simply bent down and retrieved his wand, but he'd apparently decided it wasn't worth getting any closer to the serpent for.

"Not a fan of snakes then, Andrus?" he inquired sweetly, facetiously. He was drawing the moment out longer than necessary, but it had been so long since he'd felt this in control. Perhaps he'd been approaching Slytherins all wrong—maybe it was better to simply _take_ power from them rather than to charm his way into their political machinations.

"Not from three inches away, no!" Lestrange's panic interrupted his thoughts. "Banish it already!"

The moment was over, and Tom was already lamenting how quickly it had gone by. For the first time in over two months, he'd really felt like himself again. However, there were other matters at hand—he'd not brought the older boy down here just to torment him. " _That's enough, friend,"_ he hissed to the viper. " _Come away from him._ "

The snake was instantly forgotten at the first kiss of the serpent-tongue. Andrus's dark eyes snapped up, and whatever colour was left in his face completely drained away. His careless, foppish attitude lay in tatters around his feet, replaced instead with a sort of dawning horror.

"While I find your obvious astonishment charming in its own way, I must confess that your distress is a disappointment to me," Tom sighed heavily. As empowering as the older boy's shock was, it didn't exactly bode well. "If a _Slytherin_ can barely hold it together in front of a Parselmouth, I very much doubt the rest of the school will fair any better." Perhaps this was why Dumbledore had kept so silent on the matter. Were there really only a precious few that would greet his talent happily?

Lestrange shook his head in disbelief, his throat working convulsively. "You're—" he started, but seemed unable to fully articulate the thought.

"I'd wondered, you see, what it might be like to be honest," the younger boy shrugged, stroking the viper for a brief moment before banishing the thing, "and it certainly couldn't hurt to connect myself to a Founder. I'm in dire need of some social mobility. When I heard that Parseltongue was regarded as Dark Magic, I wasn't sure how recent or strong that opinion was."

"You're a Parselmouth," the words finally burst from Andrus, who seemed to sag under the weight of that truth.

"Yes, Lestrange, that's been established," Tom rolled his eyes. Shock was one thing, stupidity was quite another. "Keep up, or I shall have to re-evaluate your use to me."

A shaking finger rose as the Second Year pointed to the high podium at the centre of the room. "But that means that you're—"

"Related to Slytherin," Tom nodded, sparing a quick glance to the throne-like structure just behind him, "but that's not quite the point right now."

Andrus snapped back to himself at that. " _Not the point?"_ he demanded hotly. "There hasn't been a confirmed Heir to one of the Founders in this school for something like three hundred years—this is historic!"

The younger boy smiled and hummed, "Now that _is_ the point, and rather the crux of my problem." He beckoned the other closer, leaning against the podium as he explained, "I could make that claim, but I only have the one way to prove that I'm related to Slytherin since I don't have the money for that sort of Inheritance Test." His fingers traced carelessly over the ornate SS carved deep into the stone structure behind him, pausing only briefly to consider his nearing companion. "So I am posing this question to you, Andrus: knowing magical society as you do, would coming out as the Heir of Slytherin be worth the general public knowing that I am a _Snake-Speaker?"_

It took Lestrange a long moment to repair his usual mask of indifference, though try as he might he could not hide the glimmer of fear that lingered in his dark eyes. He kept a slight distance between himself and the younger boy, more so than he might have done just moments prior. However, despite his clear hesitations, he did not allow wariness to stop him from wrapping his thoughts fully around the situation being proposed. "After getting over their shock, Slytherin House would certainly rally around you, but…"

Tom noticed those extra few steps between them and understood. Regardless of the prestige the title offered, being known as a descendant of Slytherin would turn him into an uncertainty in the eyes of others. Assumptions would be made about his temperament and interests—assumptions that might not always work in his favour no matter how accurate they proved to be. Salazar's reputation would make it infinitely harder for Tom to build his own; he would be draped in the opinions of his ancestor, whether he agreed with any of them or not. Slytherin certainly hadn't lived his life free of scandal either, and the idea of having to answer for ancient sins not of his own doing was less than appealing. "There would be backlash," he acknowledged. And yet, he wasn't opposed to the idea of being feared; if anything, he welcomed it, particularly if that fear came with an appropriate amount of respect.

Andrus's quiet unease was a far cry from the Seneschal's patient giddiness. "Not likely from any of the Professors as you've already earned their favour," he replied, ruthlessly holding himself still so as not to give away his agitation—a wasted effort, truly, though admirable nonetheless. "But it's hard to predict what others might think, particularly with a war brewing on the continent."

"Ah, yes." Between repairing his relationship with Hermione and all the research that had come about as a result, Tom had quite forgotten about the rise of Grindelwald. Not that it really mattered—so long as the timeline he'd read in _Modern Magical History_ proved true, the wizarding side of the war would not make it to Great Britain for another five or six years yet. He didn't see the sense in worrying about an event so easily planned around. Although, in fairness, Lestrange did have a point: increased tensions could very well make the ability to speak Parseltongue seem even more suspicious than usual. "So you're in favour of secrecy."

The Second Year was clearly caught between two very different Slytherin ideals. On the one hand was the blatant desire to accrue renown, but on the other hand was the inherent need to remain cautious. What good was being connected to the Heir of Slytherin if the rest of the wizarding world collectively decided that title was a mark of evil? "It's a lot of fame to step into," he replied slowly, trying to organise his thoughts. "Perhaps, at only eleven years old, you're not yet in a position to handle that responsibility. Picking up Slytherin's mantle could be just as much of a curse as a blessing—there's simply no knowing how many will be unable to see past your ability to speak Parseltongue, and right now you don't have enough pull to defend yourself properly against that."

Tom held in a heavy sigh; it wasn't as if he hadn't thought the same thing himself, but hearing the other boy confirm it was a disappointment. For once, he had what was possibly the ultimate bargaining chip, an irrefutable way to earn the respect of his peers, and he couldn't bloody use it. Not one to be deterred, he shifted his focus slightly and asked, "Would there be any way to keep the information contained to Slytherin House?"

"Not indefinitely," Andrus shook his head. "We might be discreet, but we're still human. At best you would have maybe one or two years before the information starts to trickle out, possibly less since the Seventh Years won't have any reason to keep their mouths shut." He shuffled again, not so much moving closer as just expending some energy. "Do you really want my advice?" Andrus asked with a purposefully blank expression. Tom let him sweat for a moment, but eventually nodded his head. "Stay the course with Alphard Black; the results may be slower and less far reaching, but they will be easier to control and cultivate. A few years from now, once you've really started gaining some pull with the Black family, that's when you begin letting it out that you're descended from Slytherin. By then you'll be older, more knowledgeable, have a more solidified reputation, and you will have put the information squarely in the hands of people who will be compelled to protect it and, by extension, you. The Blacks would kill just to claim that the Heir of Slytherin was even so much as their acquaintance, but you still have to get in with them first."

"That's not precisely the answer I wanted," Tom replied in a moment of brutal honesty. "I'm tired of people looking down on me in the Common Room, but I can see the benefits of a slower approach. Clearly, I'll have to give this some more thought." He could feel the fantasy of power slipping from him; very soon he would be back in that whirlwind of disdain, unable to use the one true weapon at his disposal. It was disheartening enough to make him feel reckless. Surely, not all hope was lost?

Thinking quickly, he decided that silence could not be the answer. It was too late for that anyway; the only way for two people to keep a secret was if one of them were dead, and Lestrange was rather a good deal more useful to him alive. No, in all probability the secret would gnaw away at the older boy until it came screaming out of him, particularly if Tom explicitly instructed him to keep his mouth shut. It was just human nature really, and all too easy to manipulate. "I trust you won't tell anyone what happened here today. After all, you are the only student that knows my secret—if word of this gets out, I shall know who to blame, Andrus." It was a pretty little trap, an empty threat he did not expect Lestrange to heed. The Second Year would keep his secret for as long as possible, but eventually he would let it slip—a small, nearly controlled leak in information. Rumours of Tom's ancestry would spread slowly throughout Slytherin, first and foremost among Lestrange's family. It was only a matter of time before the Blacks caught wind, before Alphard Black found the bait and sought Tom out on his own.

The two boys returned to their Common Room—one calm and thoughtful, while the other was visibly shaken. The Rosiers immediately closed ranks around Andrus, and the rumour mill began to turn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Where was Hermione this chapter, you ask? One word: Quidditch.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone bookmarked or left kudos, especially to frak-all, Jayenn, FreyaFallen, earedien, RedRosenberg, Xanoka, and elseryn for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	18. He Is Unexpected

Chapter Eighteen: He Is Unexpected

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Hermione hadn't been all that keen on the idea of Quidditch once the game had been explained to her. She honestly couldn't see the appeal of watching fourteen people flirt with one of her greatest fears—how the House teams even managed to play at all without constantly shrieking in terror was simply beyond her. Deep down, she also felt that it was just a silly waste of time. How much study was being forgone in favour of watching this violent, albeit daring display? On a beautiful, brisk day like this she would usually be camped out in a sunny courtyard, nose-deep in homework, but she'd come out to the Pitch today because she'd wanted to support Harry. It was his first game and he'd seemed so wretchedly nervous at breakfast—she had hoped that hearing some friends cheer him on would help him find his courage.

Before long, Hermione's instinctual fear of the aerial sport was proven wise. Harry's broom began to shudder and jerk like a bucking horse, trying to throw him off. He seemed so much smaller than the other players in that moment, tiny even, and the effort to stay on his suddenly possessed broom was clearly taking its toll. The next few minutes were a wild blur—Neville crying, Ron shouting, a desperate race to the stands where the staff sat, letting her magic fly to create the flames it was so inherently driven to conjure.

By the time her thoughts finally caught back up to the present, she was sitting in Hagrid's hut with Ron and a pale-looking Harry, each of them nursing a soothing cup of tea. Gryffindor had won despite someone's clear attempt on Harry's life, and yet _somehow_ the conversation had turned to that stupid, three-headed dog again. She honestly did not understand their fascination with the creature or what it guarded, but she rather suspected Harry needed something to focus on that would rationalise how close he'd come to dying today. It wasn't his most logical option though; he was, after all, The-Boy-Who-Lived, surely there were a number of secret supporters of the former Dark Lord that still wanted him dead. Even the idea that Snape was the culprit was beginning to feel rather flimsy—why would a Potions Master with access to dozens, if not hundreds, of untraceable poisons choose to instead use a jinx to do his dirty work? It just didn't make any sense.

The weak, mid-afternoon sun gleamed off the gentle waves of the Black Lake as they left Hagrid's. Harry and Ron were triumphant, having gotten the gamekeeper to accidentally slip them a name—Nicolas Flamel. Hermione felt a bit bad for the flustered half-giant; he was a sweet man, but not terrifically clever. It never occurred to him to guard himself against his young friends; it was unclear if Harry realised that, but he'd certainly taken advantage of it.

"Nicolas Flamel must have discovered something, and it was important enough that Professor Dumbledore offered to protect it," Harry explained as they walked back toward the castle. He seemed perversely excited about the whole mystery. Were she in his shoes, she would have been much more worried that a fully trained wizard wanted her dead. "Snape already knows where it is and how it's being guarded, so it's only a matter of time before he makes another attempt to steal it—and he knows I'm on to him, that's why he tried to kill me today."

Hermione strayed toward the edges of the Lake, wanting to stay outside for this particular conversation, where it would be harder for anyone to overhear them. "I'm not so sure," she interrupted awkwardly.

"What?" Harry and Ron both drew close beside her, their mouths hanging open in confusion.

"About Snape, that is." Her thoughts raced, recalling those blurred minutes with abrupt clarity. When she'd lifted her binoculars to search for a culprit, they had settled almost straight away on Snape. Instantly, she had taken off to distract him, and yet something had nagged at her, a brief flash of purple fabric from the corner of her eye—Professor Quirrell's turban. Her instincts had told her she was being silly for noticing him, but Tom's words from several days ago had come back to her, 'He had to display some level of competency in order to get the post, or he'd still be teaching Muggle Studies.' In theory, Professor Quirrell ought to know quite a lot about jinxes, enough to be able to cast one or two. And wasn't it _funny_ that he'd been just a few steps away from Snape, acting in almost the exact same, strange fashion? "I'm not so sure it was him trying to jinx Harry's broom."

Harry frowned and tilted his head, confused why she had earlier defended the idea to Hagrid but questioned it now in private. "Hermione, you said it yourself—he was keeping eye contact and muttering under his breath continuously."

"He wasn't the only one," she bit her lip, aware how unbelievable this was going to sound. "Professor Quirrell was as well."

" _Quirrell?"_ Ron scoffed. "Are you sure he wasn't just having some sort of nervous fit? I mean, the broom went back to normal after you set _Snape's_ robes on fire."

She nodded, suddenly keenly aware of how Tom must have felt when attempting to warn her about this seemingly innocuous man. "I know," she replied, "but Professor Quirrell got knocked over at the same time Snape broke eye contact—it really could have been either one of them."

"You set a Professor _on fire?_ " An amused chuckle rang out. "I'm actually sorry I missed that!"

Hermione, recognizing the smooth voice immediately, let out a deep sigh and acknowledged that her friend had awful timing. She turned after a moment to find Tom standing in full sight only a few paces away, anachronistic uniform and all. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, although it didn't come out quite as hotly as she'd intended; it was difficult for her to be anything other than happy to see him right then.

He laughed—a high and wild sound that she had always felt did not suit him—and picked his way across the rocky beach to her side. "All that rot about not being cruel to others," he snickered, immensely delighted with this conversation, "but the minute I turn around you're immolating authority figures!"

"Don't be vulgar," she snapped. A part of her was aware that he was just teasing, but it was hard not to take his words seriously when there was a definite glint of pride lurking in his dark eyes. Now was hardly the time to address his inclination toward petty violence and revenge though, particularly _not_ in front of company; she wanted him to appeal to the two Gryffindor boys, even if that meant downplaying his Slytherin nature. "It was just the edge of his robes, Tom," she explained with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, "more of a distraction than anything else. No one was hurt."

"Tom?" Harry questioned immediately, emerald eyes bright with curiosity. "You said you didn't know him." He looked between the two of them, gaze assessing. Just moments ago, Harry had been awash in childish eagerness and yet now, in the face of the unknown, he was once more that startlingly perceptive boy she'd glimpsed on Halloween.

"She lied," Tom smiled, plainly having far too much fun as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Pressing her firmly but casually into his side, he continued, "Your little Lioness is best friends with a Slytherin."

Hermione sighed and prayed for strength; this wasn't at all how she'd pictured this conversation going. Based on his behaviour when she'd broached the subject of Harry and Ron, she'd known that Tom wasn't keen on the idea of them. And while she had suspected that he might do something rash, she honestly hadn't anticipated whatever _this_ was—softly antagonising, quietly mocking. He was open and jovial, charming almost, for an eleven year old; if it hadn't been for the underlying sharpness of his words, or the clearly territorial way he'd positioned himself slightly between Hermione and the two other boys, he might have even seemed _friendly_. "I knew it was too good to be true," she muttered. "Once you said that you wanted to meet them, I _knew_ something like this would happen."

Tom grinned at her, honestly grinned, and she wasn't sure she'd ever seen him quite so happy. It was a blindingly brilliant twist of his lips, and in that moment she could see what he would one day become—see the boyish roundness of his face give way to the solid angles of manhood. If time was kind, he would be breathtakingly handsome. And yet, lingering at the edges of that prophetic smile was a warning, a clear delight in the discomfort of others; he was somehow amiable without ever actually being kind. "What?" he pouted sweetly. "I'm practically on my best behaviour over here."

She hadn't seen him act like this since the summer. Anything genuine in him was hidden under a carefully constructed performance, equal parts inviting and repelling. Earning his honesty had been a hard-fought battle, and its stark absence now made her shiver. Perhaps thinking she was cold, he pulled her closer to share the warmth under the edges of his his cloak, a strangely kind gesture in the midst of his current performance. It was a small comfort, but the meaning was clear—he knew his behaviour was troubling her and, in his own way, he wanted to soothe that unease. Obviously not enough to drop the act though; appearances had always been strangely important to Tom.

She couldn't quite wrap her head around what he was hoping to achieve here. Antagonising Harry and Ron served no real purpose, and it certainly didn't endear him to the two other boys. It would have been better to ease the pair into knowledge of Tom's visits, to gradually acclimate them to the Slytherin's presence. Tom, however, had apparently chosen the quick relief method, to rip the bandage off in one pull; his impatience would be the death of him one day. "You might have discussed this with me first," she sighed, but she knew it was already too late. This mess of an encounter would have to serve as an introduction. "We could have planned a better way to break the news than just ambushing them."

"Hermione," Ron called quietly, finally drawing attention back to the confused pair of Gryffindors, "what's going on?"

Harry, despite all odds, had a bit of a half-smile playing about his lips as he asked Tom directly, "Who are you?"

Tom appeared to take Harry's measure—the calm, assessing demeanor, his quiet amusement in the face of a mystery—but whatever conclusions he reached, he kept them to himself. Instead, he merely shrugged and returned, "Who do you think I am?"

"Don't draw this out," Hermione groaned.

But Harry seemed only too happy to play the game. "Aside from the troll incident, I've never seen you before," he replied, sorting through mental puzzle pieces, "so you can't be a First Year or we would have had classes together."

Ron shifted nervously, not nearly as at ease in the face of uncertainty as his compatriot. "What is she doing hanging around a Slytherin?" he muttered darkly to Harry. The redhead's hair-trigger temper was starting to engage, a hot flush already burning across his cheeks. "It's not right."

Harry ignored the emotion fueling Ron's words in favour of considering the question seriously. "We don't have any lessons with him," he said slowly, "so unless they met in the Library, I'm betting that they were friends before school started." There it was again, that unexpected intuition of his. Increasingly, Hermione was starting to think that Harry saw far more of the world than he ever let on. She'd misjudged him based on his academic record because Harry was only an average student most of the time, but she was beginning to suspect that was because he simply never bothered to apply himself; there was a sharp mind hiding behind that carefree attitude.

"You said he's at least a Second Year," Ron hissed, clearly unimpressed by the logic, "so she _must_ have already known what House he's from."

"Be fair," Harry frowned, finally turning to glance at the other boy, "she probably didn't even know about Hogwarts until her Letter came. I didn't."

Hermione had known from the start that Ron had strong opinions about the social structure at Hogwarts—he came from a long line of Gryffindors, existed under a certain amount of pressure to embody those ideals to the extreme—but she hadn't quite expected this outright hostility. It was naive, perhaps, but his next words honestly shocked her, not so much for their content as their implication. "And that's another thing," the redhead jeered, winding up into a lather, "what's a Slytherin doing hanging around a muggleborn?"

Tom, who had been watching the interplay with an avid, almost hungry expression, went dangerously still at that. His face fell blank; like a light turning off, there simply wasn't anything there left to read. And yet, regardless of his mask-like facade, his anger was belied by the sudden smoldering heat burning in his eyes. "That sounds dangerously prejudiced, Mr. Weasley," he cut in smoothly, voice almost silky despite the menace lurking within its depths. "I'd watch my tongue if I were you."

"Or you'll what?" Ron grit out and, always so quick to anger, lifted his wand as if to duel.

Tom, however, was equal parts confrontational _and_ analytical—he paused to think where the redhead did not. It wasn't exactly clear why, but he decided not to meet that challenge. Something wicked glittered in his black depths, covered quickly by the return of his off-putting friendliness. "Oh, that's not a threat; more of a suggestion, really," he replied brightly. When he continued, his tone stayed just as sweet, his features just as childishly open, but there was no mistaking the nastiness hiding within his words, "I just thought it might be nice if you could spare us all some of the useless drivel spewing out of your mouth."

Having expected actions more than words, the young Weasley floundered for a moment. "How dare you—!"

But Tom would not let him finish, a hint of steel lacing his voice when he snapped, "I'm not the one implying that anyone in present company is a possible blood supremacist! You'd think I would have earned at least a bit of good will after I helped out with the troll."

Uncertainty and perhaps even a bit of guilt flashed across Ron's face, but that did not stop him from carrying on. "How could someone like _you_ be friends with someone like _her?"_

Hermione flinched, glad for Tom's solid presence to mask the movement. Ron had hated her from their first meeting forward with such a clear and instinctual intensity that she'd once worried over his opinions on muggleborns. Harry had put that fear to rest, and these vitriolic words did not renew her anxiety precisely—they made her worry about something else entirely. Her friendship with Ron was new, untried; yes, the troll had brought them all together in ways that could not be fully described, but that didn't necessarily mean his opinion of who and what she was had changed at all. In fact, it was entirely possible that her friendship with Tom was only making her even less desirably company in Ron's eyes.

Unaware of the rapid assessment and carried away by his own temper, the redhead continued, "Your parents must be very disappointed."

"Well, they're both dead," Tom replied coldly, "so I rather doubt they're feeling much of anything." He had felt her flinch—how could he not when they were pressed so close?—and though he made no overtly aggressive motions, she noticed that his wand was suddenly gripped tightly in his left fist. " And now, I'd like it very much if you would apologize to Hermione for what you said."

Harry, perhaps sensing the danger that was preparing to erupt, threw out a hand to cut his friend off. "You went a bit over the line there, Ron," he said, pointing over to her.

She must have looked more stricken than she imagined, because he paled instantly. "What? No, I didn't mean—from _his_ point of view, not that _I_ —"

"And I thought I was bad at apologising," Tom scoffed darkly.

"Hermione, you know I didn't mean…" Ron floundered once more, searching for the right words. "It's just strange that he would call you his best friend! Slytherins and muggleborns don't get along, let alone Slytherins and Gryffindors!"

She didn't know what to make of his behaviour anymore. Either there were several unresolvable issues lying between them, or his distrust of Slytherins had devolved into outright paranoia. It wasn't like she was trying to introduce them to Draco Malfoy here, and surely he couldn't think all Slytherins were like that insufferable prat! Tom had his fair share of rough edges, but he was a good friend. "You can't always assume the worst of everyone, Ron," she told him quietly. "There's more to life than Hogwarts rivalries, you know. Tom's been my friend for three years, whether you like it or not, and right now you're making it sound as if I've been nothing but a waste of his time."

It was unclear if the redhead appreciated the full extent of his actions—he obviously didn't care that he'd just brought up an orphan's deceased parents in the most gauche way possible—but he did appear genuinely apologetic for having made her uncomfortable. When he finally got it out, his apology was hardly the stuff of legends, little better than the effort he'd made after the troll incident, but under the circumstances she supposed it was the best she could expect. After all, she'd already predicted how difficult it would be for all four of them to meet civilly; she couldn't honestly say she was surprised that Ron had been the one to react badly. And Tom wasn't exactly helping matters; his every move this afternoon had been designed to inspire the greatest amount of disquiet.

Interestingly, it was Harry who broke the long and uncomfortable silence. He'd been nothing short of reflective throughout the whole debacle, and was obviously more interested in getting some answers than waiting around for Ron to put his foot into it again. His green eyes regarded Hermione solemnly, taking in the way she was practically hugging the taller boy. "Why'd you lie about him?"

She could only stare; that was honestly the last question she'd expected him to ask. "What?"

"He's your best friend," Harry replied, voice surprisingly free of judgement, "but you told us you'd never met him before."

Tom stiffened at her side, clearly not liking that news. She couldn't blame him since she hadn't liked lying about it either, and that was exactly why she'd wanted to be able to tell the truth in the first place. Tom would never, ever have to explain her away to anyone in his own time because they had no reason to know she even existed, meanwhile he left tangible proof of his presence here in the future. Why should she have to be the only one to protect their friendship by denouncing it, to cover his tracks for him? It wasn't fair, especially since telling the truth would be easier for everyone. Was there risk involved? Yes, particularly since her conviction in Ron had just been badly shaken, but it was really only a matter of time before he or Harry figured it out on their own. Better that they should hear it first hand, that they should feel included so as not to spark any outrage.

She took a deep breath and gently pushed away from Tom. This entire conversation had spiralled completely out of control—it was time to force the issue. She still didn't think it was the ideal time, but it was too late for second guessing. It was now or never. Quietly, she spun on her heel and began to walk away.

All three boys were baffled at her retreat, but it was Harry who spoke first, "Hermione, where are you going?"

"I'm going to sit on that rock shelf over there," she shrugged and pointed to a craggy formation some paces away. "This isn't my secret to tell, and the only way it's going to get done is under the threat of a deadline, so I'll give you boys five minutes to sort this all out." She glanced over her shoulder at Harry and Ron, pleading, "I know you're going to find this difficult, but try to believe what he tells you." Leaving Tom to his own devices was a patently awful idea but she didn't know what else to do, so she turned to him and made one last effort to direct his focus by stressing, "Don't antagonise them and don't draw this out—just tell them the truth."

* * *

The awkward silence that followed Hermione's departure was hardly unexpected. Still, it presented Tom with a bit of time to study the two other boys. Weasley was almost as tall as him and he too was dressed in a set of secondhand robes, but those were the only similarities they shared; the redhead was far too inclined to indulge his temper at the expense of his intellect, a trait which would one day get him into serious trouble. Potter, on the other hand was a different story entirely—though short and bespectacled, he was also thin, pale skinned, and dark haired like Tom. And he was much more observant than his compatriot, something that had taken Hermione by surprise, which meant Harry must have a bit of a secretive nature or a talent for deception. As Tom assessed that piercing green gaze, he once again felt the disturbing tug of familiarity, as if he knew this boy, as if they'd been friends long ago and had simply forgotten about one another. That phantom impression was unsettling, but at least it wasn't as concerning as the rotten spectre that clung to Quirrell. However, it _was_ a mystery, and he hated not knowing; getting closer to the short boy might provide him with some better understanding.

It was immediately apparent that Potter would be easier to sway, easier to tolerate, than the other boy, and yet despite his carefree attitude he was somehow more in control of the relationship than Weasley. Harry was less confrontational, but if his opinion turned against Tom it could prove disastrous. Knowing what to do with that information was a bit of a conundrum, particularly considering that he didn't actually want to be friends with either of them. Would it be wiser to just focus his attentions on Potter—where his words might have the greater impact—or was it better to treat them as a unit?

This uncertainty was exactly why Tom hated engaging with pairs. He'd always found it easier to work with isolated individuals, not only because physical risk was minimized but because pairs were simply harder to read. They stood together, giving and taking from each other's personality while they each provided their own unique front—great for intimidating and manipulating, but significantly harder to charm. Inevitably, one partner responded best to an entirely different tactic than the other. How was he meant to appeal to both of them like that? He couldn't provide two wholly disparate desires at once! His Ravenclaws, at least, were united by the common interest of knowledge.

He paused at that thought and mulled it over. Wasn't he overlooking the obvious? They did have a common interest—Hermione. She was the only thing that connected all three of them, the only name that he might invoke to gain a bit of cooperation. He'd been a bit put out when she'd left him on his own, but now he was glad she wouldn't be there to hear whatever tripe he had to spin in order to get through to these Gryffindors.

"So what is it then?" Weasley broke the silence—unsurprising, since his companion seemed content to let events unfold as they would. "What's this grand secret you two are being so mysterious about?"

And so Tom told them, because there was really no sense in beating around the bush at such a late stage. It was now or never. He introduced himself as Tom Davies, explained how he had met Hermione and how their acquaintance had developed, how he _was_ a First Year at Hogwarts—just the same as them—only he was some years removed from their current time, though he was careful not to specify the exact distance. It was a lot to swallow, especially with almost no proof to go on other than his and Hermione's word that it was the truth. The difference in his uniform lended the story a bit of credence, but he could still tell that they weren't completely convinced. It was actually a shame that he was so invested in protecting his privacy, otherwise the solution would have been as easy as retrieving an appropriately dated copy of The Daily Prophet. Honestly though, he didn't really care whether they believed him, only that they didn't go repeating his story to others.

With that thought in mind, he began turning the conversation away from validity and more toward loyalty, "You owe it both to Hermione and myself not to say anything."

"How do you figure?" Weasley immediately scoffed.

Tom wouldn't have been pleased with the redhead even if the idiot been perfectly behaved, but his continued, offhanded insolence against Hermione was truly beginning to stoke Tom's temper. Reminded of the arrogant Billy Stubbs, Tom couldn't quite stop himself from acting a bit more like the orphan that the children of London feared. "We all fought the troll together," he snapped coldly, "so if you want to call that a wash, then fine. But let's get one thing straight: _I'm_ the one that taught Hermione how to harness fire _and_ I'm the one who noticed something off about Quirrell. If it weren't for me, at least one of you would be a sticky mess dribbling through the grass right now; as far as I'm concerned, that's tantamount to a life debt." It was an effort to pull himself back from his anger, to calm the magic that was beginning to swirl around him. This whole friendship was exercise in stupidity as far as he was concerned, but if it was what Hermione desired than that's what he would give her. While he wanted to stress how much more she was his friend than theirs, he couldn't afford to completely alienate both boys. Having already decided that Potter was the more important of the two, and significantly less dangerous to temper, Tom shifted his focus over to the dark haired boy. "I realise that sounds harsh," he said soothingly, hoping to smooth over his rough exclamation, "but I'm not asking for much in return."

Harry was definitely more curious than offended, maybe even distantly grateful for Tom's perceived help. His sharp eyes studied the taller boy, and it was disconcerting to Tom to realise he had no real idea what Potter saw. "What do you want?" the shorter boy finally asked; his tone was undemanding, accepting even.

"Just your silence," Tom replied softly. "Keep my secret, that's all. It's as much for Hermione's protection as my own."

Ron frowned at that, both confused and irritated at being so casually dismissed. "Why would she be in danger?"

"Do you know many time-travelers then, Weasley?" Tom scoffed.

The redhead snapped, "Obviously not," with an attitude that plainly said he didn't think the topic was relevant to the conversation.

If it hadn't been for the grudging interest still reflected in those hostile blue eyes, Tom might honestly have lost grip on his temper again. "I doubt anyone does, and I know the Ministry would take me without question," he replied, striving to sound amiable, "but don't you think they would be particularly interested in her as well? Three years of observed, first-hand information regarding a phenomenon that's not well understood in the hands of an easily controlled little girl. They wouldn't hesitate to take her out of school, separate her from you, from her _family_." He gave them both a hard stare and a little time to let his words sink in. The only way to ensure their silence was to make them think they were protecting Hermione by doing so. If he could convince them of that, then it didn't matter what their personal feelings about him were. Entreating now, he continued, "Do you think anyone would ever see her again after something like that? Because I don't."

Potter was already hooked—his loyalties clearly formed fast and ran deep. Weasley, on the other hand, appeared shaken by the idea but still tried to argue, "You can't know—"

"Magic has an uncanny way of making problems disappear though, doesn't it?" Tom cut him off, voice low and solemn. "And are you really willing to put her future at risk in favour of siding with uncertainty? If you like Hermione, if you value her and want to protect the life here that she deserves to have, then just stay quiet." So close, he was _so close_ to convincing the redhead! What would tip the boy over? The answer almost made him grin: a little reverse psychology, a little misdirection, really it wasn't so different from how he'd worked Andrus over. All Tom had to do was convince the other boy that he didn't want this—not difficult considering it was the truth—and imply that Hermione had put a bit more faith in the redhead than he had in her. Guilt would do most of the work, to be honest, facilitated by Weasley's natural urge to spite the Slytherin however he could. "Personally," he hummed, letting a bit of the disdain he felt come through, "I would not have told you at all, but Hermione was adamant that her friends _deserved_ to know, that they were _trustworthy_." Using her as a smokescreen was a little underhanded, but what else was he meant to do in the paltry five minutes she'd given him? "I can't say I share her optimism, but it would be nice if you proved her right."

Weasley finally caved, and together with Potter, they both offered their unspoken promise—not ideal, but it would have to do until Tom could figure out a more permanent solution.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh, Ron. Why must you be so unintentionally mean?
> 
> As ever, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to earedien and FreyaFallen for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
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	19. He Is Confused

Chapter Nineteen: He Is Confused

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Hermione sat near the fireplace—glad for the gentle heat after spending so long outside that day—and attempted to revise a few essays. However, no matter how hard she tried to focus, her attention kept wandering off. Why did Tom always have to be so difficult? Every time she thought their relationship had found an ounce of peace, he pulled the rug out from under her. Not that she really thought his introduction to Harry and Ron would have gone much different, but she was still a bit upset that Tom hadn't at least talked it over with her first. He'd left such a mess in his wake that she didn't even know where to begin. Ron was brooding near the stairs to the dormitory and hadn't even been able to look her in the eye when she'd tried to talk to him. Harry, at least, was sitting across from her, although he too kept studiously silent—as if the strange boy from the past didn't exist if none of them mentioned him.

How was it that the two Gryffindors could latch onto the mystery of the three-headed dog—and really, Hagrid, _Fluffy?_ —and yet be filled with such hesitation in the presence of a _time-traveler?_ She knew firsthand that Tom wasn't always the easiest person to get along with, but Ron hadn't even tried; he'd seen the Slytherin crest on Tom's robes and allowed that to form his opinion, something he'd made very clear he would not back down from easily. Harry, for his part, seemed curiously indifferent, though she thought his silence was telling enough. All throughout primary school and those long years of forced solitude when she'd wanted nothing more than even a fairweather companion, she had never imagined that having friends would be this difficult!

"Cheer up, Hermione," Harry said, finally looking up from his Transfiguration book to give her a faint smile. "It's not all bad."

His consolation fell somewhat short of reality. She couldn't stop a heavy sigh from popping out of her when she thought about what had happened on the shores of the Black Lake. "That was a disaster."

"Yes, it was," he laughed, eyes glittering with amusement. "I doubt it would have gone any better even if you'd planned something, though."

She nibbled her lip and peeked over at him; he appeared to be in good spirits, but then Harry usually did. He was either great at taking things in stride, or he honestly didn't care. "You're not upset, are you?" she asked curiously.

"Davies is your _friend,_ " he responded evenly while giving her an encouraging grin, "I understand why you were trying to protect him. I mean, you could have told us sooner, but I get why you didn't." He shrugged. "No point in being upset about that."

"Thanks," Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Is Ron still angry with me?"

Harry just barely appeared to stop himself from letting out a derisive snort—while he'd not exactly _enjoyed_ that afternoon's ambush, he did seem to think that Ron was overreacting. Quietly, he pointed out, "It's not _you_ he's angry with."

It was a sweet thing to say but not, she felt, wholly accurate. Her frustration was mounting. "Then why is he sulking on the complete opposite side of the Common Room?" It was hard enough never knowing what went through Tom's mind most of the time, she didn't need to find herself caught in the emotional tides of Ronald Weasley as well! He couldn't have expected her to only socialise with Gryffindors—that was simply unreasonable!—and yet his sullen attitude made it clear that he was not at all comfortable with this turn of events. Perhaps if Tom had been a Ravenclaw it wouldn't have been such a big deal, but Ron's hatred of Slytherin was like second nature to him.

As if reading her thoughts, Harry chimed in. "I think his family must have some kind of bad history with Slytherins," he shrugged. "Whenever he talks about them, it's only ever about how evil they all turn out to be." Then, with a chuckle, added, "Scared me straight out of even considering the House during our sorting—he said there wasn't a single witch or wizard who went bad that _wasn't_ in Slytherin. I don't think that's true, actually," he shot Hermione a guarded look, as if encouraging her _not_ to break out into an impromptu history lesson, "but _he_ certainly believes it. I think it's going to take him some time to warm up to your friend, especially if Davies always acts like that."

There was absolutely no way to hold in her unladylike snort, not in the face of an understatement of that magnitude. "That much, at least, I understand," she replied with an exasperated shake of her head. "It actually took me ages to get used to Tom—he's not the most sociable boy, and he was even _more_ standoffish when we first met, if you can imagine that."

He didn't look particularly surprised by that news, merely curious. "What changed?"

"Time, I guess," Hermione shrugged. It was strange to be able to discuss Tom with other people, to voice the thoughts and concerns she'd kept silent for several years. "The longer we spent exploring our magic together, the more personable he became. I don't think Wool's Orphanage really provided him with the opportunity for friends, and at first he honestly didn't understand how to act around other people his age." Looking back, it was actually astounding how much Tom had changed; the confrontational and imperious eight year old she'd met was a far cry from her curious and—dare she say it?—caring friend. "It took a long time to earn his trust and to give him my own in return." Although, if she had to be perfectly honest, building the trust between them was still an ongoing process—she hadn't been kidding when she'd told Tom that he wasn't precisely forgiven for his lies. She wasn't going to hold his extended absence over his head, but it had shaken her faith in him.

"He feels threatened by your making other friends," Harry realised, giving her a knowing look.

"Probably," she nodded, because there was no point in denying it. Her time-traveler was a solitary creature—no family, and if he had other friends he never spoke of them—in fact, it sometimes seemed to her as if she was the only point of light in his otherwise dark world. That he should covet the brief moments when they were together didn't seem unusual, but he had a definite problem with sharing those precious minutes. It had to be exhausting, living like that; she couldn't even imagine being in his shoes. "He doesn't mention anyone from his own time, so I don't think he's likely met anyone new. Deep down, I know he must be lonely, but he's never gone out of his way to make friends. He seems satisfied with just me, and I don't know how to convince him that he's not somehow losing me to the two of you."

"Invite him over from time to time," Harry suggested without hesitation. It seemed she'd been right: his inherent curiosity was working in her favour. She hadn't got the impression that Harry necessarily liked Tom, but he did seem drawn somehow to the other boy. "We could play a game or something—help him get used to the idea of us spending time together."

Adding an element of rivalry into their already strained social interactions seemed like a recipe for disaster. "I'm pretty sure that would end up exactly like today." If not worse; Tom was competitive down to his very marrow—something she'd never personally minded because she enjoyed matching wits, but she knew that he would not hesitate to burn bridges if it meant securing even the most petty of victories. She could overlook that, and maybe Harry could too, but Ron would only be driven further away.

However, Harry seemed to think that the plan had some merit and refused to let it go, explaining, "Maybe, but if he could see first-hand the way you interact with both us and him, it might help reassure him that everything's okay, that you can have more than one friend without any problems." He paused, glancing furtively around the Common Room, then slipped from his seat to join her on the small sofa and whispered, "Is he really from the past?"

"I think so," Hermione replied quietly. "Tom's clothes have always been very different, and he did seem quietly awed by the more modern contraptions back in London, though he tried to hide it." A part of her was honestly surprised that Harry was willing to contemplate the possibility without any tangible evidence—even she had trouble believing it sometimes—but she was not about to squander this opportunity. "He won't tell me what year he's actually from, but based on his uniform and mannerisms I've narrowed it down to likely somewhere between 1920 and 1950."

His emerald eyes glittered with delight, positively burst with wonder; it was a strangely hungry expression, not too dissimilar to the one he wore whenever he spoke about Fluffy. "How does he do it?" he asked eagerly.

"I don't know," she answered, fervently wishing that she did understand it, "and neither does he. Tom said the first two times were an accident and then he started controlling it, but _how_ exactly it works is a mystery." Of course, Tom had mentioned his theory that it wasn't specifically time-travel at all—that he was really just bridging the distance to her—but she wasn't sure if she believed that, particularly since there seemed no way to research it.

Harry ate the information up, filing it away as if it might be useful in the future. "Must be strange for him," he said after a pause. "I wonder how different everything looks?"

Hermione nearly laughed. "He's never said," she whispered, recalling Tom's staunch refusal to learn anything about himself. "He's kind of sensitive about the subject actually, doesn't want me to go looking him up."

"What's the point in having access to the future, then?" Harry frowned, and she couldn't help agreeing that it felt like a wasted opportunity—particularly strange considering that Tom was usually one to take full advantage of every situation that he could.

"I think he's afraid of what he might find," she admitted. "I mean, I certainly wouldn't want to hear if I got saddled with a boring job or died young or something."

His frowned deepened, unimpressed with the logic. "But knowing would help you prevent it from happening!"

"We should probably be grateful that he isn't interested," she cut him off. "If the timeline _is_ changeable, who knows what havoc he could have wreaked?" The sentiment felt a little naive though; just because Tom wasn't looking for specific information didn't mean he wasn't potentially changing the past. As much as she valued her friendship with the orphan boy, it was hard to keep from wondering if they were doing something wrong or unnatural. Surely his visitations had some sort of consequence! Then again, what little research she'd been able to do hadn't been at all conclusive—for all she knew, this was simply the way it had always happened.

* * *

" _The Void", Date Unknown_

Tom had always regarded the Void as an abysmal nothingness, a hellish realm devoid of stimulation or physical presence. There had been nothing to see or hear, no way to know if he still had a body at all or was just a free floating consciousness drifting through eternity. He imagined that's what death was like: a complete lack of anything, no reprieve or escape from his own increasingly panicked and mad thoughts, just the unrelenting and unknowable passage of Time crushing down upon him. The very idea of being trapped there filled him with a primal terror, with a fear so great he found himself having to justify his traveling.

He would not, _could_ _not_ abandon Hermione again, particularly not after finally understanding just how firm of a fixture he'd become in her life—he was important to her, just as she was to him—and he would move heaven and earth just to catch a glimpse of her if he had to. However, he could not deny that the price knowing her was sharply increasing again; his power had seemed blessedly free of consequence at first, but after three years the circumstances were quite changed. After Halloween, he'd been shocked and disturbed when it had taken nearly a full minute to travel to the future, but that was nothing compared to today. Today, that obscene journey had approximately doubled, revealing a host of new problems to be worried about.

The Void was changing. There was still nothing to see, but he could perceive his own body enough to feel sandwiched in an uncomfortably tight place. Sound, too, must have rejoined his repertoire, because he could sense a dissonant note piercing through his head—simultaneously high and low, pervasive on a cosmic scale, as if two great landmasses were slowly but inexorably moving away from one another. The dissonance hurt in a way that wasn't physical, like a set of sharp claws grating against his very soul. And if that wasn't disturbing enough, there were whispers now, hundreds of disembodied conversations happening all around him, the words bleeding together until they were hardly even recognisable sounds.

Tom sat immobile, the fibres of his being unraveling as they were consumed by these sensations; he was ripping apart, shattering even as something terrible pressed down into his very core. Every last particle of him was simultaneously flying apart and coming tightly together. He tried to rally his magic, to cocoon himself in its soothing protection, but there was no magic here—just cold, hard uncertainty. His previous trips through the Void had been a piece of cake in comparison to this nightmare; this was the edge of madness, a screaming insanity that humans were not meant to endure.

And yet he found the strength to grit his teeth and ride out the storm. He thought of doe-brown eyes and a sharp, _sharp_ mind, of reckless abandon and a sort of contentment he'd never found anywhere else. The universe could throw horrors at him all it liked, but he would not back down; there would never be another girl like Hermione, and he would rather struggle with the Void than wait fifty-two years just to see her again. Wool's had taught him well: wanting something meant being willing to fight for it tooth and nail, and Tom Marvolo Riddle was not one to give up on his desires.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1938_

With unpredictable abruptness, the world reformed around him. The dusty corridors of Hogwarts had never looked so inviting. He had been sure to travel from a relatively unused portion of the castle, always careful not to be caught doing something he could not explain. His privacy here was a tenuous thing but—as Tom's legs gave out and his knees cracked against the hard stone floor—he was glad for it. He couldn't stop shaking, tremors coursing through his body so fiercely he was nearly convulsing. It was an unprecedented moment of vulnerability so, of course, that was exactly when his least favourite Professor rounded the nearest corner.

Professor Dumbledore stood several paces away, shocked and then very clearly suspicious. "Mr. Riddle?" he asked, and Tom was surprised to hear the genuine concern in his voice. Dumbledore had ranged anywhere from indifferent to his presence to outright suspicious of him—he was often encouraging in class, but lacked the clear enthusiasm his colleagues possessed for the young boy. "What happened? Are you all right?" His gaze darted around the empty corridor, as if expecting to find some older students beating a hasty retreat.

Tom felt a bit insulted at the Professor's assumption; not only was he underestimating Tom's ability to defend himself, he was also showing a gross misunderstanding of how Slytherins operated. The Purebloods didn't care about him enough to bother hazing him; for now, he was so far beneath their notice that he only registered as a vague irritation, a distant embarrassment in the face of their ideologies. Knowing it would be futile to explain any of that to Dumbledore, Tom grit his teeth and pulled himself together, lying, "I just got dizzy for a moment, Professor." His stomach was roiling with nausea, there were still fine tremors shaking his muscles and his legs felt weak and hollow, but when he managed to stand they thankfully held his weight. "I'm fine."

Dumbledore eyed him critically. "Are you sure? Perhaps a trip to the Infirmary—"

"I said I'm fine," he interrupted firmly. No amount of lying would cover how tired he felt, not to someone as perceptive as Dumbledore, but he had absolutely no desire for anyone else to see him so unsettled.

"Nevertheless," the Professor hummed affably, "better safe than sorry. Have you visited Madam Pomfrey before?"

Tom had a feeling there was no talking Dumbledore down from this, not if the gentle but irrefutable grip on his shoulder was anything to go by. He cursed internally, but gave in to the inevitable; the sooner the Professor was satisfied, the sooner he would leave. With a sigh, he grudgingly began walking and replied, "No, Sir."

"Ah," Dumbledore smiled, always so strangely cheerful despite the fact that Tom knew he made the older man uncomfortable, "you're one of the lucky ones, then. Most students find their way to her within the first few weeks of a new term—even magic can't seem to keep us from spreading around a touch of fever." They reached a crossroads of sorts, and Tom was tempted to just dart down into the dungeons, something the Professor must have sensed because he carefully steered them in the opposite direction, pleasantly murmuring, "This way, if you please."

A silence fell between them, easy but not pleasant. Tom couldn't help but think of the last time Dumbledore had been leading him somewhere—on their way to Diagon Alley all those months ago. Remembering their conversation, he could almost kick himself for what he had revealed. Why on earth had he thought it had been a good idea to let Dumbledore know that he was a _Snake-Speaker?_ Had he really been so desperate to gain the approval, the _admiration_ of a man he hadn't even really known? He could scarcely fathom his own recklessness. It was almost worse than knowing that Professor Dumbledore had looked at a destitute orphan and neglected to mention that being a Parselmouth was a hereditary trait—that Tom had a family and it was an exceedingly important one. Why the man should want to cover up his roots didn't seem quite as important as the simple fact that he had tried to. The very idea made Tom seethe, made it impossible to hold back his accusator question, "Professor, why didn't you say anything to me about my ability to speak Parseltongue?"

Dumbledore's vitality faltered for a moment; though his auburn locks and placid features never changed, he seemed indescribably _old_ for a brief second. "It is a rare gift, my boy," he replied, sighing heavily, his tone resigned enough to indicate that he'd expected this conversation for a while now. "That journey of discovery had to be your own. Likewise, what you now do with that information is not my decision to make." He looked at Tom over the rim of his half-moon glasses, not precisely grim but nor was it his usual glittering gaze, either. "I would advise you to use discretion, considering the controversial nature of Parseltongue, but I cannot tell you what to do."

His opinion was abundantly clear, though. A Gryffindor through and through, Dumbledore was wary of anything that was serpentine in nature—never mind that the skill came naturally to Tom. And it was a bit hypocritical, to be honest; he never would have cautioned the Heir of any other House to maintain their silence, but for some reason the Heir of Slytherin was a thing to fear. What a load of nonsense; it was almost as if the old goat was purposefully trying to keep Tom at a disadvantage! "You don't think I should tell anyone," he said, trying to keep the recrimination out of his tone but not completely succeeding.

Dumbledore sighed again, hopefully regretting his whole part in this unnecessary interaction. "You take to magic quickly, and you've been a dedicated student thus far. If the past few months are any indication, you have a bright future ahead of you—it would be a shame to jeopardise that."

Tom's nausea had subsided, and though he still felt weak-limbed his anger filled him with new energy. He could feel his magic rushing through him, a dark flush creeping up his neck. "But it's a part of who I am—who my family is," he replied, aiming for neutrality but likely missing the mark; it was hard to sound unaffected through gritted teeth. "Why should I have to hide that?"

If the Professor was offended by his tone, the man did not show it. In fact, there was almost something disgustingly like pity shining in his pale blue eyes. "I appreciate that this isn't the answer any orphan would want to hear, but sometimes appearances must be kept, Mr. Riddle. You are young, unknown; until such a time when the magical community has a better understanding of who you are and where your attitudes lay, it would perhaps be best to sit on this information." He slowed to a stop just outside the Infirmary door and faced his student, trying to soothe, "I'm not saying you must renounce your heritage, merely that exercising caution would be for the best."

Tom could not stop himself from sneering, "Wouldn't being honest be more _brave_ , Sir?"

But Dumbledore merely chuckled. "Just the same as protecting your own interests would be more _cunning_ , I imagine," he said and then, with one last gentle urge toward the Hospital Wing, left the boy to his thoughts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Uh oh, the nothingness is taking shape! That can't be good for our young Mr. Riddle.
> 
> As always, big thanks to everyone who left kudos or bookmarked, particularly to Nico_Gaiangelo, earedien, FreyaFallen, vassilissa, Aviddaydreamer, mc111, and Evanella for commenting!
> 
> Please comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	20. He Is Learning

Chapter Twenty: He Is Learning

_Hogwarts, 1938_

The very next afternoon, Tom breathed out a sigh of relief as he finally made his way toward the Library. He'd wanted to check in with the Seneschal immediately after his experience with the changing Void—surely, by now she had to have found some writings that concerned the strange nature of time-travel—but he'd ended up stuck in the Infirmary longer than he had counted on. Madam Pomfrey and her young daughter, who was serving as her apprentice, had been determined to run every diagnostic spell on him they could think of. In the end, all they had been able to do was heal his bruised knees, cluck disapprovingly at his weight, and send him off with strict instructions to eat better lest his unexplained dizziness get worse. All in all, the visit had been a spectacular waste of his time, but he had no doubt that Dumbledore would be checking in with the two Mediwitches, so it wasn't as if he could have avoided it. In fact, he was taking something of a risk by sneaking off to the Library when he ought to be eating lunch, but he'd already put the trip off for more than long enough, in his own opinion.

The door to the Archives' antechamber swung open on creaking hinges, catching the Seneschal's attention immediately. Her pointed face brightened when she saw him. "Ah, _Little Speaker_ ," she smiled, unafraid to show him her inhumanly sharp teeth, "I was wondering when you would return. I searched through every shelf, drawer, and trunk of the Archives for you." Her pale hand reached into the recesses of her desk drawer, withdrawing a single lonely scroll of parchment. "As I suspected, there wasn't much to find."

He slid over to his usual table and sat down hard, disappointed. "This is it?"

"I'm sorry," she murmured quietly, handing the small text over to him. "The Ministry's Seneschal confirmed that there is more research being done regarding the theories of this scroll, but the proceedings are all being kept in secret. I'm afraid time-travel is not a widely explored topic outside of fiction."

Which he'd suspected, of course. After the sad turnout of the standard Library's collection, it hadn't seemed terrifically likely that the magical community had all that much to say on the subject. It was problematic for Tom, to say the least—he'd learned what he could about his power and its consequences through observation, but there was still so much that he did not understand, particularly now that his experience was changing. What was the Void? Why did he have to traverse through it? Why was the length of that trip increasing, and why was the very nature of that hell turning into something completely new and exponentially worse? He'd never felt so ignorant in his life as he did when facing that cosmic unknown; it was maddening. But, honestly, what more could he do? "It will have to be enough for now," he replied evenly. After all, one scroll was better than none. He carefully rolled the parchment between his hands, hesitating as his thoughts shifted.

The Seneschal's ocean-colored eyes caught his nervous gesture. "You have other questions," she realised.

Salazar Slytherin weighed heavily upon his mind. After eleven years, it was strange to reconcile himself with the fact that he had some sort of heritage, that his past was no longer a blank slate. For ages he'd wished to find out anything about the Riddles—any detail would have been welcomed, no matter how small—but he'd never imagined a truth so grand as the secrets his mother's family had hid. "I read _Silver-Tongued_ ," he whispered, "it was rather illuminating."

"I imagine it was," she chuckled, eyes glittering merrily. "Not quite what you envisioned while stuck in the muggle world, is it?"

"No," Tom shared her laugh. "Of course, every orphan dreams that they might be related to someone important, but this is beyond even my wildest imaginings. It does present me with a few problems, though."

She frowned, baffled. "Oh?"

"I know almost nothing about Salazar Slytherin," he admitted gravely, bitterly, "and everywhere I turn people are telling me to keep my mouth shut about this connection." His brief conversation with Dumbledore echoed endlessly in his thoughts. Both Andrus and Dumbledore had cautioned him not to rush, not to let his impatience potentially cripple his reputation before it even had a chance to develop. He could appreciate the sentiment, but it still made him gnash his teeth—their advice was as infuriating as it was sensible. Why should Tom have to remain so powerless when he could _easily_ improve his situation? Would it really be so bad to come out as the Heir of Slytherin? It would certainly silence those Pureblooded fools quick enough, make them sit up and take notice of him at last. The frigid silence that followed him around the Common Room would finally shatter and give way to something familiar—deference and a healthy dose of fear.

"Information I can help you with," the Seneschal's musical voice interrupted his train of thought. "There are plenty of biographies throughout the Library, and the Archives have a sizable collection of Slytherin's own writings."

No one had particularly gone out of their way to explain the rules at Hogwarts. Students were generally expected to follow the example of their older family members or learn the hard way; not ideal for anyone coming from a conspicuously non-magical upbringing. Tom was normally very quick to learn those sorts of ins and outs—after all, one didn't survive a place like Wool's or a city like London without learning how to read the tides—but Hogwarts continued to surprise him at every turn. He had assumed that the more fragile texts of the Archives would have been locked up tighter than even the books of the Restricted Section. "I don't need some sort of permission to handle ancient documents?" he asked carefully, unsure he understood what was being said.

The Seneschal smiled at him fondly, her words taking on a decisive edge when she replied, "In this part of the castle, there is no authority greater than my own. If I wish to show you something, none may stop me—save the Headmaster himself." She made an indelicate sound, a sort of gurgling laugh filled with derision. "And, I assure you, Armando Dippet will neither know nor care."

He didn't doubt it; Headmaster Dippet hardly seemed to know what day it was most of the time. In fact, if it weren't for his Deputy, Tom had no doubt that Dippet wouldn't even be aware of half the goings-on in the castle, particularly since he seemed to view most students as little better than a necessary irritation; if he could have run a school without students, he would have. The Professor of Transfiguration, however, seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere. "I doubt Dumbledore would like it, though."

She raised a brow and scoffed at that. "Dumbledore is merely the _Deputy_ Headmaster—he doesn't have to like my decisions, but he does have to respect them."

That was a shockingly cavalier attitude. Most of the school seemed to worship the ground Dumbledore walked upon; it was not an easy thing to stand apart from the masses. "You don't think it's dangerous to annoy the man who will one day take over leadership of this school?" he asked curiously.

"He is the reason I am here, and he would not send me away after so many years," she replied. Her tone was wistful and sad, almost as if her position at Hogwarts filled her with an indescribable discontent; not surprising really, considering how isolated she was from the rest of the castle. The real question was why she didn't just leave? "Besides, it's not his place to decide what you can and cannot know, particularly not in matters related to your family. Your heritage is your own business, and you have a right to understand it."

Tom shook his head; he agreed with her, of course, but he felt as if they were perhaps the only two people in the whole castle who felt that way. Then again, Dumbledore had seemed very resigned about the whole situation, and he hadn't been at all surprised that Tom had learned the truth about his own bloodline. "I don't think he cares so much about _what_ I find out," he said, trying to separate his thoughts, "he just wants me to keep quiet about the whole thing." Which was ridiculous and yet another reason he did not understand his Transfiguration Professor. Did wizards not understand that knowledge was power? Was he just expected to lock everything he learned away until it might be needed solely for scholarly reasons? That was a complete waste of potential in his opinion, and it made him wonder, too—how much else _wasn't_ he being taught because people like Dumbledore had decided it wasn't in his best interest to know? Were disciplines like Dark Magic really just filled with spells and potions that weren't inherently good or evil, but concerned theories that select individuals had decided they simply didn't wish anyone to know more about?

As if reading his thoughts, the Seneschal murmured, "This sits ill with you."

"Why bother knowing if I can't _use_ that information?" he replied heatedly. For as long as he could remember, he'd wanted to know _everything_ , to understand the length and breadth of reality and to leave his mark upon it. Yet now he was being faced with strange edicts: know, but don't act. That was exactly the attitude that made him so fed up with his Ravenclaws from time to time—knowledge, _theory_ was only half the battle; eventually you had to get your hands dirty, to experiment ruthlessly, or the world would stagnate. Why cry caution when caution would gain him absolutely nothing? And, more to the point, how could he ever accept his Professor's advice if doing so meant _denying_ what Tom was? "Dumbledore clearly doesn't understand—I was born a _Speaker_ , it's not some learned skill that's easily suppressed." The old man might has well have asked him to pretend he wasn't a wizard while he was at it; the idea was obscene and thoughtless. "Do I just never talk to another snake again, even though we are drawn to each other and share a profound connection?"

The Seneschal's hand hovered in the air, almost-but-not-quite patting him on the shoulder. "He expects too much of you; you cannot deny yourself." She huffed out a sad sigh, and it struck him then how similar they truly were: through little better than an accident of birth, she was considered potentially evil, the world frowning down upon impulses and instincts that came to her as easily as breathing. "A mermaid pup hunts from the very first day it is born, to do otherwise would be unnatural. It is the same with you: you must do what is in your nature as well."

It was not necessarily a revolutionary philosophy. Tom had always hated the idea of conformity, had ever prefered that others adapt to him rather than he to them. Strange to hear that opinion voiced aloud, though; shocking, even, considering that she was the only adult figure in his life who seemed at ease with the thought. Not too long ago, he had considered that the Seneschal, being partly mermaid and so deeply isolated, would hold a point of view too alien for him to connect to. How wrong he'd been! Despite her gentle temperament, her thoughts were eerily similar to his own. And yet, as much as her opinions validated his feelings on the matter, it did not change the fact that their opposition still had an ounce of logic on their side. "Dumbledore's not completely wrong, though—as much as I hate to admit that," he said grudgingly. "There's a very real chance that people will think I'm a Dark Wizard if this all gets out."

She rolled her eyes and finally sat down beside him, her pale hands twitching once more as if she wished to soothe him. "Dark is a point of view, _Little Speaker,_ a subjective assessment," she replied heavily. With a vague gesture to her own unearthly features, she continued, "I have never cast a single spell solely for the purpose of being mean-spirited, and yet I am considered a Dark Creature. There will always be those that are afraid of that which they do not understand."

It was a solemn truth that was causing him far too much trouble. Tom did not necessarily want to frighten others, as that would not serve his purpose until much later down the line. Fear was a handy motivator of course, but for the moment it was more prudent that others should perceive him as nothing more than a brilliant student; domination and control would come later. He had read Hermione's books, studied the rise of Grindelwald and, to a lesser extent, the rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—Tom had memorised their recruitment campaigns, their strategic wins and losses, identified the problems he felt had largely contributed to their respective downfalls. All that information had come together to form a workable template, a knowable path that would eventually lead him to power. For now, it was enough to fit in, to win everyone's trust, to work from the inside so that no one would really be able to pinpoint when he had gained control of society. The two impending Dark Lords had made a mess, _would_ make a mess of their grand militaristic takeovers; they had wasted resources and ended countless lives when it would have been easier and more effective to simply assume control of the existing system. Tom would not make the same mistake—he would claw his way to the top of the Ministry, and once he reigned supreme the wizarding world would finally understand what a mistake it had made by leaving him to grow up amongst muggles.

It was a long game to play though, and reward would not come until well into adulthood—and that was only if reward came at all, as failure potentially lurked around every corner. Great Britain would be understandably leery of handing over power to anyone who had a poor school record. His marks were beyond reproach, but his social life was in shambles and it had the potential to become infinitely worse if Hogwarts collectively decided that being the Heir of Slytherin made him untrustworthy. Then again, proving he was descended from one of the Founders was the only thing that might give him some easy political sway.

"How am I to know what to do?" he asked, feeling crushed under the weight of that question. He could see so many different outcomes, so many different options, each of them bearing their own set of consequences.

"There is no right or wrong answer," the Seneschal replied sagely. "I could tell you what I might do in your position, but I am not you—I do not have your experiences or desires. You must decide for yourself what is best."

That was a diplomatic non-answer if he'd ever heard one, and yet it somehow made him feel a bit better, eased his growing fears back into manageable territory. The future was his to shape, and whatever path he set down upon was his own decision. There was the ever-present temptation to go to the future and study what he could of his own life, but that was a rabbit hole he was certain he _did not_ wish to go down. He would make his decisions because they had come to him organically or not at all.

So what to do in this situation? Tom knew he was holding an incomplete picture of Slytherin, that he did not understand enough about his ancestor to reach any sort of conclusion. "Can I look at Slytherin's writings?" he requested, polite mask slipping back into place as his thoughts calmed down. "Maybe if I had a better idea of who he was, I could decide on my best course of action."

She raised a brow at him; she was perhaps the only person in all of Hogwarts who was capable of recognising his mask for what it was, because she wore one of her own—the disguise of a predator attempting to blend in with its own prey. Her gentle temperament did not belie the fact that mermaids were notoriously cruel creatures, just as his own amiable facade hid his dark thoughts. To say that she was unimpressed with his turn in behaviour was a bit of an understatement though; he supposed there wasn't much point in playing pretend around someone who actually understood his basest nature. He allowed the look to drop in favour of something more genuine—the desire for knowledge and the burning greed he felt for the collection that she protected. She laughed in response, her beautiful voice ringing out, "You should have been born one of us, _Little Speaker;_ you certainly have the heart of a mermaid." Before he could even respond, she had slipped behind the door to the Archives, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Not one to waste valuable time, Tom began to read the scroll he'd already been given. To his deep disappointment, it contained no viable information concerning the Void; it was, however, still incredibly interesting. The small text appeared to be a research paper of some kind. Much of it was incomprehensible to him, boasting long sections dedicated to subjects he had not yet even begun to study—such as Arithmancy and Ancient Runes—but he understood and was intrigued by the base theory the paper presented. The author seemed to be convinced that Time was malleable to a certain extent and could, in fact, be "turned over" in small quantities. His interludes with Arithmancy appeared to be laying the foundation for the sort of enchantment he would need in order to achieve this effect. True to form, however, the scroll only spoke of going _back_ —never, ever forward, and certainly not in leaps so vast as Tom routinely traveled. Interest aside, the text was as useless to him as everything else he'd read on the subject.

Before his frustration could mount too heavily, the Seneschal returned. She carried with her perhaps half a dozen texts—although carried was not exactly the right word. Despite the preservation spells heavily enveloping each book, she chose not to touch the texts at all, levitating them instead. He wasn't sure if she did this out of a desire to keep them as pristine as possible or if she simply did not wish for her skin to make contact with them for some reason; Tom wouldn't exactly put it beyond someone like Slytherin to have cursed his own writings. She carefully set the books down and handed him a pair of pixiehide gloves; they were not as tough as dragonhide and were less likely to inadvertently damage the ancient vellum.

He put the gloves on and began examining the texts immediately. They were all hard-bound in glossy, well-oiled leather, the parchment pages strung together neatly. Despite their age, there were no obvious signs of decay, aside from a little bit of yellowing and a few faded words here and there. Calling them words was painfully generous, however—Slytherin had written in some sort of language or code that Tom did not immediately recognise. Was it possible that wizards had once had their own language, something apart and distinct from Old English? The chaotic swirls and spiralling lines were unlike any written language he'd ever seen, different from the sharp-edged script he'd found in medieval texts elsewhere in the the Library. Was this a dialect of some sort, or Slytherin's own invention?

When the answer finally came to him, Tom could have hit himself for being so thick. After all, the Seneschal would not have brought him writings she expected him to be unable to read. And what extremely rare linguistic talent did he have in common with his ancestor? This had to be the written form of Parseltongue. But how to bloody read it? He'd never seen any of these symbols before, so how was he meant to attach any sort of meaning to them? Parseltongue came to him naturally but only when spoken, and it was still entirely possible that Slytherin had just made the whole written system up. Without any sort of key or guide, these books were useless.

Sensing his frustration, the Seneschal pulled out what was likely the oldest text amongst the lot, opened it to the first page, and commanded, "Read."

" _How?"_ he shouted, hands coming down upon the table sharply. He'd always excelled on the academic level; not being able to read these books was more than just problematic—it was an affront to his pride.

"Aloud," she deadpanned, cuffing him lightly by the ear to show she was unimpressed with his short temper. "You speak the language, do you not?"

"That doesn't mean I can read it!" The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth. How many orphans had he heard use that exact excuse to to justify their own illiteracy? In many ways, Parseltongue was closer to being his mother-language; it came to him more readily and with a deeper and more inherent sense of understanding than English did. He had fought hard to teach himself how to read human language, and it appeared he would now have to do the same for the serpent-tongue as well.

"You're overthinking this," the Seneschal soothed, brushing his hair back in a disconcertingly maternal gesture. "Relax. Allow your mind to drift as your eyes and fingers trace the symbols. The words will come to you if you read them out loud."

That was frustrating, paradoxical advice, particularly coming from someone who was only vaguely a Parselmouth. Still, he did his best—with little success at first, but the more he relaxed and allowed his subconscious to take control, the easier it became. Reading in Parseltongue was an uncomfortable experience: the writings meant nothing to him, but as he slowly and painstakingly deciphered each word verbally, their meanings began to take shape. With practice, he might one day become fluent reading the serpent-tongue, but it was a little hard to have much confidence when he wasn't sure if any of the words he spoke actually corresponded to what was written on the page.

His hisses were slow, methodical, delayed all the more by the fact that he was writing everything down lest he forget the thread of the sentence between words. He was, in essence, being forced to transcribe Slytherin's writings, an endeavour that would take him much longer than he could have imagined. Still, there was a certain amount of peace in the work: allowing his serpentine whispers to curl and twist through the air was almost meditative. There was no urgency to connect and hold a conversation, for the first time he was able to simply take in the beauty of Parseltongue, to soak in the majesty and structure of a non-human language. Tom was so lost to the charm and elegance of the experience that he nearly missed the Seneschal's low warning.

"Someone's coming," she said, quiet but urgent. It took a moment to understand her words, to shift English back into focus.

The door to the antechamber abruptly slammed open, revealing Eunice Macmillan. She was a waif of a girl—small and delicate, pale enough to seem sickly if not for the faint pink of her cheeks; she dutifully kept her honey-coloured hair tightly plaited with Ravenclaw-inspired ribbons, making her look even younger than she was. In other words, in most matters of appearance she was Hermione's complete opposite, too proper to have a taste of the wildness he found so appealing in that girl from the future.

"See?" Macmillan grated stubbornly to her companion. "I told you he'd be in here."

Beside her stood Alphard Black, a whippish boy with dark eyes and darker hair. He was paler than Andrus, but they shared a number of similar features—expressive brows, sloping noses—enough that if someone had told Tom the two were brothers, he might have believed it. Black even seemed to possess Andrus's sharp perception; his dark eyes were trailing over the room suspiciously as he asked, "What was that sound?"

Eunice shook her head, already exasperated for some reason. "What are you talking about?"

"There was a funny hissing noise just as you opened the door." Black's eyes narrowed skeptically upon Tom for a moment before slipping away to settle on the Seneschal.

Miss Macmillan, on the other hand, kept her gaze trained anywhere _but_ at the woman in question—she was clearly uncomfortable around a partially non-human entity. He didn't personally understand the aversion. It was true that the Seneschal was no great beauty, but her features were still more human than mermaid. And she exuded such a distinct air of calm that it seemed ridiculous to be frightened of her. However, it was clear that Eunice _was_ frightened, something she tried to hide by shifting her attention back to her cousin. "Alphard Black, if you dig your heels in one more time, I shall write to your Mum," she threatened haughtily. "Don't you dare try to change the subject again. Now go on," she pointed toward Tom, "apologise to him!"

Tom quirked a brow, surprised. He had absolutely no idea what was going on, although that might have been owing to the fact that he'd been busy studying their family dynamic—Andrus had been right, Eunice and Alphard acted much more like siblings than cousins. Tom tried not to show his interest, but their behaviour was fascinating to him; it was like peeking into the windows of a home he'd never have in order to behold comforts he would never experience. There was such warmth between the two, an almost tangible sense of caring; had he met them back in London, he might have actually goggled at the obvious tenderness that made up their relationship.

He shook himself back to the present, surreptitiously covering Slytherin's writings as he offered Eunice a benign and blankly polite smile. "What's he apologising for?"

"Oh, Tom, there's no need to protect him," she rushed out in assurance. "He told me all about the nasty rumour that you'd done something to Andrus Lestrange— _which I don't believe for a second_ ," her blue eyes glared hotly at Alphard before softening and turning back to Tom. "When I heard that you ended up in the Infirmary yesterday it was obvious to me what happened. I'm so sorry about him; my cousin's always been something of a thick-headed brute." She whipped around to smack Alphard's arm, unladylike but amusing. "Apologise already! Have you no manners at all?"

Black danced away from her, rubbing his shoulder as he defended himself, "I didn't do anything."

That was precisely the wrong thing to say. Eunice's face turned ruddy and she began shouting, " _Alphard Ignatius Black,_ if you do not do the right thing _immediately_ , I'll not only rat you out but I'll take down your likely equally-guilty cronies as well!"

"You're a harridan sometimes," Black sniffed disdainfully, "did you know that?"

"He's my friend," she growled. "Now get on with it."

Black rolled his eyes and huffed. "Well, Riddle," he drawled, smooth and distinctly insincere, "I'm deeply sorry for whatever the hell happened to you yesterday, although I still maintain it was not me—and if it _was_ your comeuppance for what you did to Andrus, then I can't say I feel all that badly about it." He eyed Eunice's thunderous expression and bit down on whatever else he'd been about to say, instead continuing, "But in the interest of not starting an interfamilial feud, I apologise _ever so sincerely._ "

Tom was secretly amused by Black's cheek, particularly since they both knew nothing had happened between them, yesterday or otherwise. He supposed he could have stopped the other boy from having to apologise for something that was decidedly not his fault, but he found the sight funny. A noble son from the House of Black being forced to acknowledge the Slytherin pariah—it sent a thrill down Tom's spine, especially since he knew that eventually everyone in their House would have to do the same.

"That was pathetic," Macmillan sneered at her cousin. "Are all Slytherins incapable of remorse?"

Fun as it was, the charade had clearly gone on long enough; after all, Tom didn't want to alienate the other boy. Black still presented his best possible way in among the other Slytherin First Years. With an easy shrug and what he hoped looked like a sheepish grin, Tom replied, "He's right, though. He didn't have anything to do with yesterday."

"Thank you," Black enunciated haughtily as he folded his arms across his chest. "You see, Eunice? Didn't I tell you?"

Macmillan wrung her hands, contrite now but not entirely remorseful. "Well, what was I supposed to think?" she snapped. "You kept going on and on about Lestrange!"

"As a point of interest," Tom broke in amiably, drumming his fingers upon the table in a show of nonchalance, "what are people saying I did to Andrus?"

Black's eyes were immediately drawn to the strange books before him, no doubt remembering the out-of-place hissing he'd heard. His gaze slid back over to Tom, suspicious once more, and countered, "What _did_ you do?"

It was unclear if the other boy suspected him of being a Parselmouth—Black kept his thoughts close to the chest, which was problematic to say the least. It wasn't likely the boy could see or understand anything in the books before them, but their presence seemed troublesome to Black for some reason.

This was not at all how Tom had imagined his introduction to Alphard going. It appeared Andrus Lestrange was proving more trustworthy than he'd anticipated; word of Tom's possible connection to Slytherin obviously hadn't made it into circulation. Black was only confronting him because of how shaken Lestrange had continued to behave. Still though, just because things hadn't ended up the way he'd anticipated didn't mean he couldn't salvage this situation. Not needing two potentially ticking time-bombs on his hands, Tom decided not reveal his Parseltongue ability to Alphard just yet—for now it would have to be enough to play the usual Slytherin game of social politics. "Come now, Mr. Black," he crooned silkily, "you know that's not the way the world works. A little tit for tat, if you'd be so kind."

"So you're a Slytherin after all," Alphard laughed humorlessly. "The Rosiers are convinced that you tortured him, although I fail to see how a First Year could without leaving any evidence behind. Nevertheless, the fact remains that Andrus has become noticeably worried about you." He paused, eyeing the taller boy speculatively. "Where did the two of you go that afternoon?"

Tom smiled widely, a touch sharply, aware that he was bordering on off-putting but Black would hardly expect less of him. "I like to wander the castle, you see," he replied brightly. "While I was exploring, I found the classroom that Salazar Slytherin himself likely taught from, and I wanted to show Lestrange."

Black found that immediately questionable. Not an unwise impulse, as their House wasn't exactly renowned for its generous outlook. "Why?"

"Andrus has been helpful to me these past few months," he explained truthfully enough. "I thought it might be prudent to give him something in return." Not wanting Eunice to think anything untoward had happened, Tom added, "Perhaps he was simply _overwhelmed_ by the experience." However, he rather suspected that Black, at least, could hear the mocking undercurrent in his voice.

Alphard was sharp, he picked up on cues quickly, but in this instance he seemed to have misinterpreted something—that, or his concern for Lestrange was clouding his judgement. "And where is this room?" he asked snidely; it was clear that somewhere along the trail of his thoughts he'd decided Tom was lying.

"I could show you, if you like," he replied, happy to prove the boy wrong. Black would learn soon enough that it was never really what Tom said that was questionable so much as what he'd failed to mention. Why lie when the incomplete truth was much more effective? "For a price, of course."

"Steady on, Tom," Macmillan frowned. "That history belongs to everyone."

Black shook his head fondly and chuckled at her. "How very _Ravenclaw_ of you, cousin," he drawled arrogantly. "You miss the point entirely: he wouldn't be a Slytherin if he asked for less." He turned back to Tom and gave him a considering look, something slightly less hostile but still relatively suspicious. Decision reached, he offered, "If you show me this place, though I highly doubt it's real, I'll let you sit with me in the Great Hall."

The young Heir of Slytherin's grin twisted at the edges. It was a clever bargain, really—it gave Tom exactly what everyone knew he needed while still providing Black with the opportunity to suss out some kind of information. "Trying to keep an eye on me?"

Black didn't bother denying it. "Two of them, in fact."

Tom gave a chuckle of his own and held his hand out to seal the deal. "I'm honoured," he confessed with a smirk.

Alphard accepted the gesture—somewhat awkwardly since Tom had offered his left hand—and shortly thereafter found a reason to leave with his cousin in tow. Black did not trust him, that much was abundantly clear. What wasn't quite so plain was _what_ the boy suspected him of. Was Black wary because he thought that Tom had somehow hurt the Lestrange boy, or was he in fact beginning to put together the larger picture? Andrus's curious silence combined with the unexpected and obviously unexplained hissing Black had heard didn't necessarily lead to the logical conclusion that Tom was a Parselmouth—and therefore the Heir of Slytherin. It was entirely possible that Black just thought he was mad and a little dangerous, but the boy was displaying infinitely more wariness than that theory should have warranted. Alphard thought he knew something, whether it was actually the truth was what Tom would have to pry out of him in the coming days. In the meantime, he would simply enjoy the fact that the first social door had finally cracked a bit; it was only a matter of time now before the whole of Slytherin House stood open to its rightful Heir.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Harry's suggestion sat at the back of Hermione's thoughts for several weeks, long enough that he actually started to badger her about it. She just couldn't work up the nerve to schedule a play-date between the four of them—it seemed unbearably childish and she knew for a fact that Tom would consider it a waste of time. Looking back on their relationship, she had to admit that they'd never really _played_ together; both of them were too academically minded to find much value in youthful whimsy. Their version of fun had always consisted of trying to one-up each other while exploring their magic. What silly board game could compete with that? And yet she couldn't deny the wisdom of Harry's advice; Tom needed reassurance of his place in Hermione's life and the easiest way to give him that was to have all four of them in the same room together. If he could observe their dynamics, assess the different ways that she behaved around each of them, then perhaps Tom would stop viewing the two Gryffindor boys as a threat. Obviously, it was a bit of a long shot, especially after the time-traveler had gone out of his way not to mention the other two boys since that fateful day on the shores of the Black Lake, but she had faith that it would work eventually. After all, how long had it taken him to grow tolerant of her? They had bonded over their magic very quickly, but they hadn't actually become friends until quite a while later. Still, it was a lot to ask of him, particularly since she knew he wasn't interested in getting to know anyone better, hence why it was taking her so long to work up her nerve.

Today would be the day, Hermione decided as she and Tom snuck toward an abandoned classroom, if for no other reason than because she was tired of Harry giving her Significant Looks over breakfast.

They were about as far from Gryffindor Tower as it was possible to be—Lavender Brown was on the war-path, convinced that her recent string of academic difficulties were somehow Hermione's fault. In all likelihood they _were_ a bit, because it was clear that the troll incident still weighed heavily upon Professor McGonagall. She supposed it wasn't really fair that Lavender was being surreptitiously punished for something that wasn't her fault, but considering all the bullying that girl had gotten away with, Hermione considered this justice all the same. Still, it paid off to keep away from the snotty Gryffindor just now; the last thing she needed was for Lavender to find out about Tom. While she seriously doubted that the other girl would be clever enough to realise he was from the past, Hermione didn't wish to invite the scrutiny of a notorious gossip. Knowing Lavender, she'd blab immediately about Little Miss Know-It-All fraternising with a Slytherin, which would not only scandalise the more conservative students but also make her relationship with Tom that much harder to conceal.

"You're very quiet," the boy in question commented as they slipped into the empty room.

Hermione pushed thoughts of Lavender away to focus on the matter at hand. She was a bit shocked at the nervous lump that formed in her throat—after all, it was only Tom. "Harry wants to invite you over to play a game," she blurted out, mentally scolding herself for sounding so apprehensive.

Tom set down his schoolbag. "What, like cards or something?" He frowned, clearly baffled. "Why?"

She nearly laughed at that—leave it to him not to understand the value of socialising. Instead, she just replied, "So that everyone can get the chance to know each other."

He made a vague sound of disgust and rolled his eyes. "Meaning you want me and Weasley to come to some sort of understanding."

"I'm not blaming you for how he reacted," she rushed to explain, "but I do think there's a way to smooth things out." Ron was high strung and occasionally unreasonable—after finding out her secret, it had taken him days just to look her in the eyes again—but there was one thing that always put him in a good mood. "Do you know how to play chess?"

"No," he snorted.

"Really?" She couldn't help but be genuinely shocked at that news. "I thought that would be _exactly_ the sort of game you'd play."

Offense immediately sprang across his face at those words, like she was implying he must be stupid not to already know how to play chess. Obsidian eyes flashing, he told her stonily, "There's no way Mrs. Cole would ever spend money on something so _frivolous_. Entertainment was never really a primary concern at Wool's."

Hermione winced at his cold tone. It was never a good idea to let his thoughts linger on the orphanage too much—he vacillated wildly between being completely nonchalant and confrontationally defensive about his circumstances. He was waiting for her to take that bait, to let this snag turn into a full-blown argument the likes of which they hadn't indulged in ages, but she ignored it. Instead, she smiled brightly and assured, "Oh, you'll love it! It's a very strategic game, you know." Frowning, she couldn't help but add, "The wizarding version seems unnecessarily violent, but it's still the same basic set of principles. And it just so happens that Ron's an excellent player—he's already taught most of the boys in his dorm." She set her own schoolbag down and hopped up to sit atop an empty desk, swinging her legs as she urged, "If you asked, I'm sure he'd be happy to show you."

Tom visibly let his anger go, settling instead for just looking vaguely put out by the whole conversation. Sliding up to sit beside her, he replied, "That sounds like an unbearably tedious waste of an afternoon."

"Well, think of it this way, then," she teased, bumping shoulders, "you can never beat him if you don't know how to play." He paused at that, clearly taken with the idea; she could only hope that attempting to engage his competitive nature wouldn't end in disaster. Tom would very likely pursue the game single-mindedly until he began to consistently win. Ron was a talented player and on the rare occasion that he'd been beaten he'd accepted defeat well, but she had a suspicious feeling that things would be different between these two—Tom was rarely gracious in victory and Ron was already looking for more reasons not to like the Slytherin.

"You know," Tom frowned at her playfully, "I'd be insulted by how transparent your attempts at manipulation are if they weren't so effective."

Hermione grinned, mentally crossing her fingers and hoping she was doing the right thing. "Gryffindor bluntness has its rewards. So will you do it?"

"It seems as if you and Potter have already decided for me," he said, clearly still a bit annoyed. "Who am I to refuse?"

"We can set a time limit, if you're honestly not that keen," her smile slipping a bit. "I'll just tell Ron that we have to study."

"Speaking of—?" He grinned widely, gesturing down to their bags.

"Oh, yes, right," she nodded, gaze following his motion. They had spent a good portion of their day looking for an appropriate place to try out a few new spells together. Between all the fuss at the start of term and the still prickly situation concerning Ron, it felt to Hermione as if she and Tom had not had the opportunity to perform any magic together since the summer. She was aching to get back on even footing, to fritter away their afternoon in the bright excitement of exploration.

Still though, that didn't mean she wasn't without her reservations—they'd stuffed some thick pillows into their bags to use as padding, but the simple fact of the matter was that they were about to fire actual spells at one another. She kept telling herself that it was no different than when she'd practiced hexes with Harry and Ron, but that simply wasn't true; Tom had an intensity about him that she'd never seen anyone else match. Their little non-verbal pushes and pulls of childhood would be _nothing_ compared to proper incantations. Meaning, pillows or not, quite a lot could stand to go wrong. Excited as she was to be doing this sort of thing together again, she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, we won't even be learning proper dueling spells until next year. Maybe we should just work on Transfiguration instead of Defense."

He arched a dark brow at her, his expression mocking even as he patiently explained, "You know just as well as I do that everything has to be practiced in order to get it right, even jinxes." With a quick jump, he left the desk and walked across the room. Drawing out his pale wand, he turned back around to face her, teasing lightly, "Now come on, stand and deliver!"

With a bow to one another and a double-check to make sure they'd both secured the pillows round their middles, the pair each took up a stance and began dueling. Hermione felt completely foolish: she had no idea how she was meant to stand or move, she didn't even know if she was performing her spells correctly. Tom seemed more confident, more at ease, but then he'd had the benefit of a Quirrell-free education. She did her best to keep up with him, but that was difficult when he clearly knew what he was doing. It didn't speak highly of her Defense Professor's skill as an educator that she was left scrambling to defend herself against another First Year. If Tom had been a Dark Wizard, she would have been done for. For his part, the Slytherin was enjoying himself immensely. Every once in awhile, he'd take pity on her and call out some instructions, but by and large he seemed happy to let her sink or swim at her leisure.

Her spells were growing weaker, she could feel it—her frustration and confusion was rapidly dividing her focus. Had this been an actual class, Hermione would have been _embarrassed_ by her performance. Tom's spells, on the other hand, were only getting stronger, each jinx impacting her pillow with a forceful thud. Slowly but surely, she was being pushed back across the floor by the power of his spells, and all she could think was that she was grateful for the padding because she could only imagine what his jinxes would be like if they hit true.

Unfortunately, she very shortly found out. His aim waivered, just high enough to strike her chest, and her legs immediately went out from under her. She recognized this one immediately—the Jelly-Legs Jinx—and she supposed she ought to be thankful that he'd stopped throwing Stingers, but she couldn't really muster up the enthusiasm. A part of her was fairly certain he'd misaimed on purpose.

Another spell whizzed just over her head. _The nerve of him!_ She was already on the ground, and he was threatening to hit her a _second_ time? "Watch it!" she bit out, instinctively using her magic to push him back a few paces.

He stumbled and laughed. "What's the matter, Hermione," he called out mockingly, "can't keep up?"

She glared at him while performing the Counter-Jinx. Once back on her feet, she marched straight up to the Slytherin and poked him in the chest, growling, "I haven't actually been _taught_ this yet, you know."

"Really?" Tom looked surprised, maybe even a touch guilty—which only made her angrier because that meant he'd simply assumed she was abysmal at these spells instead of just confused. "My class covered these jinxes weeks ago. What are they teaching you?"

Hermione had to stop herself from rolling her eyes when she thought about her Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. "Professor Quirrell mentioned them," she said at length, "even gave us the incantations, but he didn't show us the wand movement or let us practice them or anything."

Tom's slight frown deepened, his voice dripping with disdain as he asked, "So he just _lectures_ for the _entire_ lesson?"

"He doesn't like practical demonstrations," she shrugged. "I told you once already, didn't I? He seems afraid of his own subject. We spend most of the class on theory or listening to anecdotes about his travels." Next to Professor Binns, Quirrell was probably the least effective teacher on staff. It was almost as if he went out of his way to prove how incapable he _should_ be at serious or powerful magic, and yet she couldn't help but remember what had happened to Harry's broom during his first Quidditch match. That spell had been strong, if minor, Dark Magic; Snape was a better fit for the culprit, but she couldn't shake Tom's warnings about her Defense Professor. If Quirrell really was hiding something, then that meant he was teaching them poorly on purpose—a thought that made her blood boil.

"That sounds dreadful," Tom interrupted her thoughts. "My Defense class almost always has a practical component."

Grimacing, she started, "Well, Professor Quirrell—"

"Y-yes, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's head whipped around as the rest of her froze in place—guilty and worried all at once. For a moment it felt as if time stood still and she gazed in dawning horror at the man who was casually peering into the room. She hadn't even heard the door open, and yet there stood Professor Quirrell. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? Her throat felt desert-dry and her mouth flopped open uselessly a few times. Eventually, she found her voice, but all she managed to get out was a weak, "Professor!"

Quirrell's head cocked inquisitively, his face open and earnest as always, but there was something dark and calculating in the depths of his eyes. Or was that perhaps just a trick of the light? "St-strange place for t-two students to meet."

She managed to turn her head just enough to catch sight of Tom. Apparently having decided it was too late to make a clean getaway, he'd elected to stay. His back was turned fully to the door, his head almost literally buried in a textbook to hide his face—which might have looked comical if not for the seriousness of the situation. Honestly, were it not for the tense set of his shoulders, he would have presented the perfect picture of nonchalance. Knowing that he would not risk speaking just now, Hermione rushed to answer the Professor, "We were just trying out some of the jinxes you told us about in class."

"I w-wouldn't recommend that," Quirrell smiled, stepping into the room. "Easy sp-spells, of c-course, but if Filch found you using ma-magic outside of class you'd get in tr-trouble, you know."

Nothing had changed about the man—he was still pale and trembling, still affecting a general sense of quiet desperation—and yet there was something else there as well, something extra. A dark aura had filled the room upon Quirrell's entrance. She tried to tell herself that she was imagining things, but even from the corner of her eye she could tell that Tom sensed it too. The young Slytherin's head was cocked ever-so-slightly, as if listening to a whisper that no one else could hear; for some reason, that sight filled her with dread.

Quirrell cleared his throat and, realising that she'd let the silence drag on for far too long, she rushed to say, "Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir." Plastering on her most helpful smile, she grabbed her own Defense text and added, "It won't happen again. We'll just study from the book."

"G-Good idea," he nodded. "D-Don't forget to turn in y-your essay assignments before the holidays." And yet, even after the finality of what was obviously his parting statement, the Professor lingered, his eyes trained on Tom's wand. The long stick of yew was barely visible over the edge of his book, but even that small glimpse seemed somehow familiar to Quirrell. His trembling dropped for a moment, something distinctly like awe and horror flitting over his face, but it was there and gone so quickly that it was hard to say she hadn't imagined it. At length, Quirrell's gaze darted over to her, disconcertingly speculative now, but he turned and left before she could study the look any further.

Hermione was shaken, her hands covered in a cold sweat as she stared at the door. A part of her expected Quirrell to come back or another Professor to peer in, but the minutes dragged by and nobody appeared. Lost in her worries, she nearly shrieked when Tom took hold of her hand. He drew her in close, as if trying to surround her, his black eyes staring off into the distance. She wasn't sure whether he was quite as rattled as she was, but something was clearly bothering him—something more than the fact that he'd been caught by an adult. Whatever those worries were, they drew out a strangely protective instinct in him; despite his frequent standoffishness, this was the second time that the aftermath of Quirrell's presence had prompted Tom to seek physical assurance that she was unharmed. Several moments passed between them, silent and anxious but, thankfully, not frantic like the last time.

Tom blinked, gaze finally focusing, and drew in a deep breath. Then, calm as could be, commented, "That's a very inconsistent stutter."

"What?" she gaped. How could he focus on that at a time like this? He had her pressed so close that her face was nearly squished into his chest, but when she finally managed to glance up she could hardly believe his expression. Blank. Perhaps slightly analytical but, by and large, blank—whatever he was feeling, whatever his thoughts were on the situation, he'd pushed them down so far she had no chance of seeing them. She wasn't sure if that was meant to be for her benefit, if he was trying to put up a brave front for her, but watching him become so cut-off alway left her cold.

"The Matron used to have an aid who had trouble talking—she always got stuck on her S's and T's, but that was all," he explained. Then, with a nod to the closed door, he added, "Your Professor Quirrell, on the other hand, just seems to be choosing stutters at random."

The implication was not lost on Hermione. "You think he's making it up?" Was Quirrell's speech impediment just another possible layer of deception? As much as she disliked Snape, studiously harmless Professor Quirrell and his uncomfortably dark aura was beginning solidify his position as the true threat inside Hogwarts. Of course, everyone posed a risk to her relationship with the time-traveler, but the idea of that information in the hands of her Defense Professor suddenly seemed genuinely dangerous.

Tom shrugged, "I don't know." His blank expression eased a bit, allowing a touch of concern to creep over him. "Do you think he was suspicious of us?"

She sighed and stepped back a bit, wearily rubbing a hand over her eyes. "I don't see how he couldn't be. Catching a Slytherin and a Gryffindor together isn't exactly a common occurrence. Not to mention that you wouldn't even look at him. And it has to be pretty noticeable to Quirrell that you're unfamiliar." And yet, despite that, there had been a greedy sort of longing in his bearing. Had Quirrell really recognised the young Slytherin's wand? And, if so, why had it struck such a chord with him? "He's been a Professor here for a number of years and there are less than three hundred students—"

" _What?"_ he interrupted her, grabbing her shoulders suddenly.

She looked up quickly, taking in his widened eyes and dumbstruck expression. "You're surprised by that. Why? How many students are there in your time?"

Tom looked suddenly sick in his confusion as he answered, "Just under a _thousand_ , Hermione."

It was her turn to feel nauseous. "Do you mean to tell me that your House alone has nearly as many students as my entire school?" Quirrell was instantly pushed to the back of her thoughts. Instead, the empty corridors of the castle swam to the front of her mind, the massive expanse of a Great Hall that never seemed full even when everyone was present, and all the towers and abandoned classrooms that stood as testaments to a different era. "I've always felt that Hogwarts is unnecessarily large for the number of people who reside here, but that's just ridiculous!"

"Merlin," he breathed, "what do you think could do that to the population—some kind of magical plague?"

She shook her head. "There have been a couple of wars…" she admitted slowly. "Maybe Grindelwald—?"

But Tom didn't let her finish the thought. "No," he interrupted. "I read up on him. He's never going to gain a foothold here—a few rogue supporters and a lot of opposition, but no actual presence." He let go of her shoulders and cocked his head, asking, "What about the other one, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

Hermione felt like wringing her hands in frustration. "Not much specific information is available. All the history books seem to go out of their way to be vague." Which was frustrating, to say the least. Coming from a non-magical background, she had made great efforts to catch up on modern events, and yet it felt as if the most important information of all was being studiously ignored. How could they overlook a Dark Lord so thoroughly? Of course, she knew the answer to that already. "I think You-Know-Who is still too fresh in everyone's minds. Even ten years later, they're still too scared to talk about what happened. I've found a couple of important battles mentioned, a few suspected victims, _loads_ of transcripts covering the criminal trials of his supporters, and Harry's story of course, but nothing really about You-Know-Who." And she _had_ looked, high and low, for any glimpse of this man that Ollivander had once compared her to, but each book had left her more frustrated than the last. "No name, no age, no real dates—it's like he just sprang into being, fully formed in the late 60's. No one seems to know how many deaths to really attribute to him." She bit her lip, searching for other explanations in the population drop, not wanting to assign blame to a figure that she hardly knew anything about. Tentatively, she suggested, "There are other magical schools, you know. Maybe people just moved away from Britain."

"Over five hundred students seems like an unreasonable number of transfers," Tom pointed out solemnly. "Attendance numbers are going to vary from generation to generation, but to go from nearly a thousand students to less than three hundred in just a matter of decades?" His dark gaze flit back to the closed door and narrowed suspiciously. "British magical society must be on the brink of extinction."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry for not updating last week; between the sheer size and content of this chapter and a minor whirlwind of misfortune over here at Chez Ergott, I just needed a little extra time to get everything in order. Hope Chapter 20 proved worth the wait!
> 
> As always, my unending gratitude to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to Alexandraya, Evanelle, Angrypixels, Azhwi, earedien, modernlovehermione, Lirimaer, plottinghere, and MangoSupreme for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	21. He Is Keen

Chapter Twenty-One: He Is Keen

_Hogwarts, 1990_

_Come to me_ , the malignant pollution had whispered to Tom once more. _Come to me and you shall be whole_ , which hadn't made a single ounce of sense to him; he was whole already, wasn't he? He couldn't guess what it's interest was—Hermione had seemed to sense the darkness this time, but it hadn't appeared to speak to her the way it did to him. He shivered in revulsion, remembering its putrid touch. Even more disturbing, underneath that nauseating perception of rotting decay had been a bit of _temptation_. As Hermione had babbled at her Professor, Tom had struggled against the familiarity and the wholly new desire to consume this thing that confronted him, to absorb its magic and wield its power as his own. The only thing that had kept him rooted to the spot was the knowledge that the price of acquiring it would be far too high—there was a consciousness hiding in the darkness, and he was certain he did not want that inside himself.

The apparition had silently switched tactics, or perhaps simply been unable to quell its curiosity. _Which one are you? How did you come to be here? Why do you waste your time in company such as this? You're younger than I imagined. Come to me!_

It had been an effort just to keep his eyes blankly trained on the book in front of him. The temptation to turn around and study Quirrell had been fierce. Was Quirrell controlling the darkness, or was _it_ controlling _him?_ In the end though, Tom hadn't been able to do more than grit his teeth and helplessly wait for the moment to pass—he'd sooner attempt to hex Dumbledore than reveal his identity to this twisted, young Professor. And yet, even after the man in question had left, the faint whisper and the terrible impulse it inspired remained. _Come to me._ He'd had to steel himself against the urge, to find solace in the knowledge that Hermione was untouched by that corruption; she grounded him, offered enough openness and distraction to block out the silent whispers. Their sibilant edge remained—like a midge he couldn't fully swat away—but it was easier to ignore in the presence of his friend.

"Why are we here?" Ron Weasley's accusing voice cut through Tom's reminiscence. "I thought it was oh, _so_ important that _he_ not get seen by anyone."

In the aftermath of Quirrell's appearance, both Tom and Hermione had agreed that it might be a good idea to alert her… _friends_ about the probable danger. However, he rather suspected they had entirely different reasons for this—she seemed to be seeking their counsel, but he merely sought their compliance. While Quirrell represented a threat to all of them, particularly to the safety of Tom's secret, it was Hermione who was most vulnerable to potential attack. Tom could remove himself to the security of his own time at a moment's notice, but she did not have that luxury; her best defense then was never to be alone, never to present the Professor with the opportunity to corner her. As much as he detested their presence in her life, Tom could not deny that Weasley and Potter might prove useful just now.

To that end, Hermione had quickly gathered her two Gryffindor compatriots and then hustled all four of them to a study room that was halfway up the Astronomy Tower. She seemed fairly confident that no one would stumble across them there—apparently the room only made itself accessible for a scant few hours during undocumented celestial events, rendering it more or less impractical for its intended purpose. Tom had wanted to take them to Slytherin's classroom, whose fortified depths essentially guaranteed they would not be discovered, but he'd had to concede that getting to the dungeon entrance unseen would have been next to impossible. The Tower room was not without its charm: rich tapestries hung upon the walls depicting all manner of constellations, while a scale model of the solar system drifted and glittered serenely in the centre of the room. There were several tables and desks scattered about, and the group had chosen to huddle around one of the smallest tables, furthest away from the door—not the best place for this sort of meeting, but certainly not the worst, either.

"Something's happened," Hermione began solemnly. "Tom and I were practicing spells together when Professor Quirrell—"

But Weasley, true to form, interrupted her, rolling his eyes as he exclaimed, "Not this again!"

Tom fought down a smile at the ire that instantly flared to life in Hermione. Her eyes narrowed, their usually doe-like depths glittering with an angry fire—it was quite the sight to him. Strange, almost, to see her angry at someone else for a change, but all the more enchanting for it. She rounded on Weasley within seconds, practically snarling, "I sit through your blabber about Fluffy and Nicolas Flamel on a _constant_ basis. The least you could do is humour me in return, Ronald!"

Startled, Weasley backed away from her—interestingly, so did Potter, even though he wasn't the subject of her wrath; had they never witnessed her temper before?—however, his opinion remained unswayed. "But it's _Quirrell_ ," he emphasised, as if that explained it all. "I don't think he even has it in him to kick a cat, let alone perform Dark Magic."

Sensing danger, Potter jumped in to mitigate. "What happened, Hermione?" he asked, calmly redirecting her attention.

_Curious_ , Tom thought as he studied their interactions. They were very different from Macmillan and Black. The three of them were deeply dysfunctional at first glance, unable to present a wholly united front and yet, on some level, they worked together perfectly. Their dissention forced them to explore every idea to its fullest, to validate every argument beyond a shadow of a doubt, to pursue avenues of thought they might never have entertained otherwise. Hermione supplied the logic, Weasley unwittingly played devil's advocate, and Potter kept the peace. For all that their friendship was flawed, they still created a truly formidable force together. It was not a welcome revelation; he'd felt a curious thrill to watch Eunice and Alphard, but to study these Gryffindors from the _outside_ made Tom uncomfortable for reasons he didn't wish to examine.

Temper still lurking close to the surface, but quelled enough to allow her to continue, Hermione stiffly relayed, "Quirrell caught us together. I don't think he saw Tom's face, but he seemed to recognise his wand." She paused, face tight and pale with anxiety. "I think he might suspect the truth."

Tom flinched at those words; this was certainly news to him. There hadn't been time to stash his wand even if he had thought to do so; just grabbing a book to shield himself with had taken too long. He'd been worried that he hadn't moved quickly enough, that Quirrell might have glimpsed his face when he'd caught them by surprise—it hadn't crossed his mind that his wand might be just as identifying. Did Quirrell know him somehow, or had he mistaken Tom's wand for someone else's? He couldn't have seen more than a few inches of it, so it was possible that he'd jumped to an inaccurate conclusion. However, even if Quirrell _was_ mistaken, it wouldn't change his level of interest. Tom was well and truly on the young Professor's map now and, by extension, so was Hermione. The situation was quickly becoming far more dangerous than he'd imagined.

"Well, that's _his_ problem," the redhead grumbled over his thoughts, gesturing dispassionately in Tom's direction, "not ours."

"It's going to become your problem, Weasley," Tom pointed out coldly. "If Quirrell thinks you've had contact with me, you might be targeted for information."

Logic was clearly not Weasley's strong suit—and Hermione thought the boy some kind of strategist?—because he continued to draw the argument out. "We don't have anything to tell him; we've only met you twice."

"He's not going to know that until he's already got you cornered, so it would be best to stay on your guard," the Slytherin snapped. Really, how could the idiot not see that?

"Look, I don't want to sound rude here or anything," Potter waded into the fray once more, apparently quite dedicated to being the voice of reason, "but I honestly just don't get it—how can the two of you be so frightened of Professor Quirrell?" His question was posed without judgement, carefully hiding anything that was not plain curiosity. It was clear that the boy thought they were being irrational, but he managed to present that idea in the most inoffensive way possible. "He's harmless."

Tom studied the short Gryffindor, that errant impression of familiarity nagging at him once more—but if there was any of the darkness in this boy, Tom could not sense it. It was suspicious, though, that the two qualities felt so much the same, doubly so since the boy in questions didn't seem able to perceive the blackness that he shared _something_ with. Was The-Boy-Who-Lived lying to them in regards to his opinion about Quirrell, or was he simply not observant enough to notice anything wrong? Being unable to piece the mysterious boy together was frustrating to Tom; he'd never failed to understand someone so thoroughly before. It made him wary, but for the time being he had no choice but to trust Hermione's judgement.

"That's just what he wants you to think, Potter," the Slytherin replied easily, pushing his distrust aside. "He's hiding something."

As if sensing that they were close to a precipice, Hermione jumped in and added, "You know I don't make these claims lightly, Harry, and if you'd been with us this afternoon you would understand." She bit at her lip and shivered in remembrance. "Quirrell was suspicious of us without cause, and when he stepped into that classroom something _wrong_ came with him."

Potter cocked his head and considered that, but Weasley apparently thought she was just being dramatic. With another irritating roll of his eyes, he asked, "Are you sure what you felt wasn't the guilt of doing something so unnatural eating away at you?"

"I don't waste time feeling guilty—" the Slytherin began.

But Weasley immediately interrupted him with a darkly muttered, "Big surprise."

Tom clenched his jaw, but graciously elected to ignore the outburst, continuing, "—and this thing was cloying, insidious; it was the whisper of Death hidden inside the promise of power." He met the gaze of both boys in turn, staring down ice and emerald in an effort to impress upon them just how serious the situation was. "Whatever that darkness is, it seems capable of thinking independently of Quirrell, which makes it all the more dangerous because that means we could be facing two enemies at once."

Potter looked suddenly excited, cheeks flushing as his eyes took on a bright glint. "Are you sure it wasn't just the residual feeling of _someone else's_ magic?" he asked in a rush.

Tom had a feeling that the conversation was somehow circling around to the Professor that Hermione had set fire to. He'd never seen this Snape bloke, and it _was_ suspicious that he was so uniformly disliked, but their disgruntled Potions Master was hardly the trouble at hand. However, saying that outloud would only make Potter stubbornly cling to his idea, and the last thing Tom needed was for the other boy to get defensive. He attempted to circumvent the issue entirely, bluntly asking, "Do you really want to risk your safety— _her safety_ ," he gestured to Hermione, "on that gamble?"

She immediately stiffened, but he'd expected that. For her own irrational reasons, she had always objected to his protection, but now was hardly the time to indulge her. It was one thing if she elected to endure some schoolyard bullying, but it was quite another when her actual safety was being threatened. Still, a part of him wished she would leave for just a moment and allow him to speak freely without the worry of enraging her.

As if hearing his thoughts, she raised her brows and stubbornly proclaimed, "Whatever you want to say to them, you can say in front of me."

Tom sighed in irritation. He was trying to be a gentleman, but she seemed determined to make a fuss. "Very well," he shrugged. She already knew what he was going to say; if she got upset, then it was her own fault for sticking around to hear it. Blithely turning his attention to the two Gryffindor boys, he told them imperiously, "I'm tasking the both of you with keeping an eye on Hermione—I can't be here all the time, and I need to know that somebody's looking out for her."

"Really, Tom," she sneered, "I'm perfectly capable of—"

But he didn't let her finish, firmly continuing over her arguments, "Don't let her out of your sight; the best time for Quirrell to strike will be when you are divided. Right now he's just suspicious and probably looking for more information, but when he doesn't get any he may become desperate, perhaps even aggressive." For all their disbelief about the situation, Potter and Weasley did seem to take his command seriously. Their quick loyalty to Hermione was admirable, if nothing else. Even so, Tom knew they would be looking for danger in all the wrong corners, so he threatened, "If she gets hurt on your watch, you'll have me to answer to."

Potter smothered a laugh. "If she gets hurt, I think we'll have bigger things to worry about than your wrath," he explained dryly.

Fighting down another sigh, Tom rolled his eyes. "You're entitled to your opinion, Potter, but I do so love proving others wrong," he warned.

Hermione chose then to clear her throat. Her hands were tightly fisted into her skirt, her hair seemingly fluffed up in indignation—why was she always so perversely cross with him on the occasions that he worried about her? In a tart, clipped voice, she asked, "Are you done talking like I'm not sitting right next to you?"

"It's for your own safety," he replied evenly, fighting down the urge to massage his temples. She would only get angrier if she thought _he_ was irritated with _her_.

"I can protect myself," she bit out stubbornly.

Why was it that he was having to explain the boundaries and motivations of friendship to someone who was nauseatingly in love with the concept? What was she so upset about, anyway? He was only trying to help, and not even in the way that he'd offered to help her against the Smythe brat—there was nothing aggressive or violent or _wrong_ about asking her friends to watch out for her! Honestly, if the Gryffindors were as close as she liked to assume, then they should have been compelled to protect her regardless. He couldn't understand this behaviour of hers, this blatant disregard for her own well-being; had the tables been turned, she would have been haranguing him that it was only _logical_.

That was it, wasn't it? Tom was haphazardly pricking at her emotions instead of completely addressing her sense of orderly logic. Talking over her certainly hadn't won him any points, either. "I don't doubt your potential, Hermione," he began gingerly, soothingly, "but Quirrell is older and more educated than we are. We don't even fully understand what it is that we're facing." Cold, hard facts; inescapable, verifiable truth—these were the things she needed, the qualities that she required in order to appeal to her. Whatever emotional height she was climbing could not withstand the power of simple but firm logic. "In a group, you can deflect his attention. On your own… Do you _really_ think a Grade One spell is going to stop that darkness from having at you? Or were you just intending to set him on fire and hope that he doesn't know a counter-curse?" She'd barely been able to hold her own against Tom; he didn't doubt she was strong enough to do it, but her knowledge in the matter had clearly been insufficient. Quirrell had no reason to properly teach Defense; after all, no one could conceivably stop him with the shoddy education he was providing. She couldn't honestly believe herself capable of squaring off against a man whose campaign of misinformation had left her vulnerable even to other First Years. He was aware, however, that this was an affront to her pride, that he had to soften his words or she would only be pushed further away. Swallowing thickly, he reached for her hand and murmured, "I'm sorry if I insulted you, but I don't want you in that sort of danger—and you can't deny that minimising potential risks is our best defense right now."

"I hate it when you make sense," Hermione grumbled, deflating a bit as her fingers laced through his own. "Perhaps just don't phrase it like you're trying to protect the girl."

Tom furrowed his brow in confusion. "I _am_ trying to protect the girl. Does that seem somehow objectionable to you?" She was his only real friend, and for all her tenacity and wild temperament there was still a worrying softness about her, a fragility that girls from his own time did not possess. Perhaps it was unfair to compare her to anyone who had lived through the hell of Wool's Orphanage, but the fact remained. Besides which, any one of those hardened girls would have taken this protection as their due, would have expected or even demanded it from her male counterparts. He had a hazy feeling that this was one of those generational disconnects they'd thus far managed to avoid.

She confirmed as much, half-frowning as she replied, "It's a bit archaic, yes."

Weasley and Potter had chosen to remain studiously silent for some minutes now, barely daring to move lest focus somehow shift to them. Something told him that they both found this verbal tennis match perversely entertaining.

Tom couldn't stop himself from pressing his free hand to his eyes. Even though her words went a long way toward potentially explaining her completely irrational stance, the revelation was hardly welcome at this moment. Frankly, their Dark Magic crisis seemed a little more important than trying to bridge half a century of cultural differences. "I'm going to take a guess here and assume we don't have nearly enough time to clear this matter up, so let's leave it at this," he dropped his hand and looked at her, hoping that some semblance of earnesty—a quality that did not so often tread upon his features—was clear to her, "I'm 'protecting the girl' _only_ because the girl is _you_."

There was a tense moment, her fingers tightening around his in gratitude even as an argument brewed within the depths of her gaze.

"I still think the two of you are barking entirely up the wrong tree," that simple statement shattered the silence. Surprisingly—or perhaps not, considering what Tom had already observed of their dynamics—it was Potter that diverted everyone's attention. He seemed comfortable in his role as peacekeeper, naturally inclined to level out the tempers of those around him; there was something _balancing_ about the boy, neutral almost, that he frequently took advantage of to settle fights before they truly started. Of course, in this particular case, he'd probably only traded in one argument for another but, still, it was an interesting talent.

Hermione made a moue of disapproval. "Snape's got no reason—"

"Quirrell has _less_ reason," Potter cut her off, Weasley distantly backing him up. "Snape's been confrontational and rude, if not downright _sadistic_ toward us. He knows we suspect him of trying to get down the trapdoor, that's why he tried to knock me off my broom!"

"Trapdoor?" Tom frowned, turning his attention back to Hermione. "Am I missing something here?"

The redhead chose that moment to break his silence, snickering, "Oo, clever ol' Davies not know what we're talking about?"

"Stuff it, Weasley," he snapped, uncomfortably aware that there was a flush creeping up his neck—there was nothing he hated more than appearing lost or ignorant.

Weasley smiled nastily but, interestingly, chose not to taunt Tom any further; although that decision was reached perhaps less out of kindness than the practical fear of stoking Hermione's temper back up. "The third floor corridor is being used to hide something," he explained. "We don't know what exactly, but we do know that a man named Nicolas Flamel asked Dumbledore to protect it. Which is handy, because it was almost stolen from Gringotts not too long ago, and that bank is _legendary_ for not having break-ins."

Potter nodded, adding, "Dumbledore's really gone out of his way to protect this thing, too. The trapdoor is guarded by a monstrous, three-headed dog—"

"Named _Fluffy_ ," Weasley muttered, looking confounded, "because Hagrid's apparently a maniac."

"—and it sounds like a group of Professors have added defenses beyond that as well." Potter's green eyes flashed exuberantly; for all that he seemed to recognise the danger lurking around them, he was undeniably invigorated by it. Hermione had been right: the boy had a nearly pathological love for mysteries. "Hagrid says Snape's one of those Professors, but I think he's after whatever they're meant to be protecting."

Loathe as he was to admit it, Tom could see the thread of logic that Potter was following; if it hadn't been for his own chance run-ins with Quirrell, he might have even been impressed with the boy's reasoning. Unfortunately, Tom's experience revealed the weakness of the whole premise: maybe something _was_ wrong with Snape, but Potter was only focusing on him for personal reasons, petty complaints. Quirrell, on the other hand, was very clearly a real issue. Hoping to swing the argument around, Tom casually asked, "Got any proof?"

"Aside from his completely suspicious behaviour?" Potter returned glibly, quirking a brow at him. When Tom remained unmoved by his humour, the Gryffindor shrugged and continued, "Snape was attacked by Fluffy—I saw the wound with my own eyes—so clearly he's tried to get down the trapdoor at least once before."

Hm, that _was_ curious. But then, trying to get past the guard dog didn't automatically make Snape a thief. While Tom couldn't quite conjure up a valid excuse as to why, the fact remained that Snape _could_ have had other reasons for what he'd done. To that end, he pressed, "And he tried it strictly to get at this hidden thing?"

Potter snorted, as if he thought Tom was acting simpleminded. "Well, why else would he be attempting to get past Fluffy?"

"Why, indeed?" Clearly Snape merited more thought than he'd assumed. Was the Professor simply overzealous about his guard duties, or did he have some sort of hidden agenda? However, it was difficult for Tom to put together the pieces of a man he'd never met. Uncomfortable with not fully understanding the players at work, he moved his attention to something a little more concrete, asking, "So what is this coveted object?"

"Like Ron said, we don't know," Hermione shook her head and shrugged. Out of the three Gryffindors, she seemed the least interested in this little conundrum, though she still managed to sound chagrined when she admitted, "Hagrid accidentally told us that Flamel was involved, but we haven't had any luck researching him—we're all sure we've heard the name before, but we just can't seem to find it again."

That wasn't good news, though it was hardly surprising, given today's series of unfortunate revelations. The trio before him had put together a viable, if potentially inaccurate theory, but they failed to appreciate the real scope of what was happening. In a distant way, he was sure they wanted to stop Snape, but that was likely more out of petty vindication than anything else, a way to get revenge for how the man treated them—which was problematic if Snape wasn't actually the guilty party. The three of them had joined the fray for personal reasons, they wouldn't perceive true danger until it was far too late. But if Tom was right, if their Defense Professor was the true villain, then the situation was much more dire than they seemed to think. "If this object is really so desirable," he pointed out quietly, "then it stands to reason that someone like Quirrell—someone who is _clearly hiding something_ —would be tempted to steal it." Quirrell's mere presence practically guaranteed that the object was powerful in some way. He shuddered to think what that darkness might become with access to such a desperately desired artefact.

For once not combative, Weasley simply shook his head and replied, "Quirrell wouldn't have the nerve."

If they'd seen the man as he and Hermione had, Tom doubted that they'd be having this conversation at all. It was plain that, for today at least, the two boys could not be convinced of the truth, but Tom still needed them to be his eyes and ears while he was in his own time. He would have to lie then, or provide some reasonable explanation as to why they should remain cautious. They were determined to cling to their idea, which meant he couldn't outright discount it, but perhaps he could find a way to use it to his benefit. Thinking quickly, the Slytherin countered with, "Perhaps not, but then maybe his actions are not a choice." There, the seed of doubt: they didn't know _anything_ for sure, so it would be foolhardy for them to ignore potential enemies. "That aura around him was sentient; it's possible that Dark Wizards unknown are possessing or controlling your Professor."

Potter's head immediately whipped up. "Do you think Snape—?"

"Oh, for the _love_ of _Merlin_ ," Tom snapped, unable to bite down on the words in time. He knew he was working against himself at this point, but it was so very _frustrating_ how they refused to see past Snape. "Maybe he just _hates_ you, did you ever think of that?"

Unimpressed by his temper, Potter simply raised a brow, absently reaching up to rub at his lightning bolt of a scar—perhaps he was feeling a bit of frustration himself. "Your suspicion of Quirrell seems just as unreasonable to me, you know," he replied evenly.

It took a bit of effort, but Tom managed to clamp down on his retort. He had to salvage this; he needed the two Gryffindors on his side, if only for Hermione's sake. And it wasn't exactly like they were Slytherins, after all—Weasley and Potter should be _easy_ to manipulate in comparison. He just had to stop letting his displeasure have its way; if Tom was right, and he didn't doubt that he was, there would be time enough to rub it in later. For now, he had to bridge this gap, even if it meant pretending. "Fine," he breathed out, adding a touch of defeat to his tone, "keep an eye on _both_ of them, if you must. Just don't let your guard down."

A charged silence followed his plea, but it seemed to do the trick. As much as the two boys didn't share his concerns, they weren't about to spite him at Hermione's expense, particularly not after he'd just given them tacit permission to continue stalking their Potions Master. He could only hope that their silly infatuation wouldn't divert too much of their attention. Potter and Weasley were only as useful as they chose to be; human shield weren't much good if they never got into proper position.

Hermione shook off the quiet first, though she hardly seemed happy to do it. Biting her lip once more—a compulsive habit of hers and a painfully clear sign of her nerves—she looked toward the redhead and awkwardly admitted, "There was one other thing we were hoping you might be able to help us with, Ron."

Weasley looked startled that they might have discussed him at all, let alone wanted anything from him. "Me?" he asked blankly.

Hermione hesitated, and Tom was certain it was because a part of her simply didn't want to know, didn't want to face the reality of what had apparently happened. He could sympathise—they had stumbled headlong into a truly devastating fact—but the possibilities would only haunt them if they did not get their history straight. If there was some sort of plague or terrifyingly destructive force that was about to consume the population in his own time, then Tom _needed_ to know. Determined, he asked, "Your family's attended Hogwarts for generations, right?"

Weasley turned to him, plainly uncomfortable at the idea of discussing his family with a Slytherin, but still he answered, "As far back as anyone can trace. We can't prove it," he cracked a faint smile, looking a touch proud now, "but legend says that the Weasleys were among some of the first students to be taught by the Founders."

"So you know a lot about the castle, then?" Tom pressed.

"About as much as anyone from an old family, I guess," the redhead replied with a careless shrug. "Why?"

Hermione took a deep, fortifying breath, then plunged ahead, "Tom and I were talking and it sort of came out that there's been a massive attendance drop over the last few decades—some five hundred students just _gone_." She withdrew her hand from Tom's, fingers clenching into her skirt once more as she leaned in toward the redhead. "We were wondering if you might be able to tell us why."

Potter's interest sharpened immediately, but Weasley practically fell to pieces. His face drained of colour, leaving him sallow and pinched as he whispered, "Oh."

In that gentle but firm way of hers, Hermione pressed, "Do you know what happened?"

It was clear that he _did_ , and waiting for him to answer felt like torture. For as much as Tom resented the wizarding world—resented how they had abandoned him to the tender mercies of London, how they had withheld knowledge of who and what he was for years on end and then expected him to be _grateful_ when they did finally get around to informing him—he was terrified at the idea that magical society might be shrinking out of existence. Bitter or not, it was _his_ world now, and if there was something he could do to steer it away from disaster then he would. A heady rush warmed his cheeks as it occurred to him that with this knowledge the fate of _hundreds,_ maybe even _thousands_ , rested within his hands; he could, in essence, control their destinies. It was a thrilling feeling to be handed so much power—people could live or die by his actions.

"Yeah, it's just…" Weasley interrupted his thoughts, squirming in his seat like it was suddenly covered in thumbtacks. "It's not something people really talk about, you know?"

"Tom and I weren't raised the way you were, Ron," Hermione reminded him, leaning even closer as if she feared to miss a single word of his; if she scooted forward anymore, she'd be in danger of falling off her chair entirely. "We _don't_ know these things."

"Erm, well…" The redhead swallowed thickly, scratching the back of his neck while his ears flushed a dark red. "Mum won't speak about it, says it's best to keep the past behind us. Dad, on the other hand…" He gestured weakly. "Well, he lost a lot of family. I mean, everyone did, but…"

"You're not making any sense," Tom and Potter said simultaneously—Tom snapping, Potter murmuring.

"It's no secret that the family lines have been getting smaller for a long time now," Weasley explained bluntly, "but even so, the wizarding world had a balance. That was before the war though, before You-Know-Who." He looked sick just mentioning the Dark Lord. "Dad says entire bloodlines were wiped out, not to mention all the muggleborns and squibs that just _disappeared_."

Tom wasn't sure what a squib was, but it didn't really matter—he had his answer now, and though he had suspected the truth it was still shocking. He had focused on Grindelwald as the larger threat when studying the two Dark Lords, but he could see his mistake now: he had judged their worth purely upon the amount of information available. A part of him had childishly assumed that books written upon You-Know-Who had been scarce because he simply hadn't been worth discussing that much. After all, how dangerous could a man who'd ultimately been defeated by an infant truly be? And, in the grand scheme of things, Grindelwald was much closer to becoming a potential presence in Tom's life; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was decades off and had really only merited thought for his capacity to interfere with Tom's own plans.

"I suspected, of course," Hermione breathed out on a morose sigh, "but I never realised the war was _that_ devastating."

Weasley nodded solemnly, his lips set in a grim line. "According to Dad, You-Know-Who shook everything up. He wasn't like other Dark Lords: he was more powerful, more persuasive. It was almost guaranteed that he was going to gain control of our world. Even _Albus Dumbledore_ was only just holding him off—everybody kept waiting for Dumbledore to duel him, like with Grindelwald, but he never did." His gaze shifted over to Potter, who had remained eerily and uncomfortably silent throughout this explanation. "The war didn't stop until You-Know-Who tried and _failed_ to kill Harry."

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1990_

For the first time in what felt like ages, Tom was unwillingly pulled back to the past. Hermione couldn't even remember the last instance of that happening; over the years, his visits had stretched from scant minutes to full hours. Then again, today had probably been his longest stay yet; as strong as he often seemed to her, even he had his limits. She couldn't say she was entirely sorry to see him go—though she always missed him deeply when he was not around, she was eager to get out from under his watchful gaze. He'd be furious if he knew what she was snooping around the Library for. In all honesty, she did feel a bit guilty about it, because she really _had_ wanted to respect his wishes and privacy by not digging into his life. But Quirrell had recognised Tom's wand—that had to _mean_ something! What if Tom had somehow inherited a famous wand, or Quirrell had mistaken it for someone else's? They needed to know what was going on in the young Professor's mind if they were to have any hope of evading him—if Quirrell thought Tom was someone else, then they were better off learning who that was rather than ignoring the mystery.

It had taken longer than expected to shake off Harry and Ron—they'd been surprisingly resolute about doing Tom's bidding—but in the end, Oliver Wood had solved the matter for her. There was one Quidditch match left before the holidays and he was determined that the Gryffindor team should practice every day before that. Harry had smiled sheepishly, promising to meet back up with her after he was done flying through his drills, and she'd appreciated that he hadn't tried to get her to come watch the team practice; though she supported him wholeheartedly, she could hardly think of a greater waste of her time than sitting around in the cold, empty Pitch and doing nothing. It hadn't taken much convincing to get Ron to go with him; after all, between sport and homework, Ron would choose Quidditch every time. He didn't look quite as sheepish about his decision as Harry, but there was still a surprising touch of guilt lingering around him when he waved goodbye to her. Hermione supposed she ought to feel bad for convincing him to go—it wasn't right to encourage either boy to go against their promises, unspoken or not—but she could hardly have them following her to the Library, hovering around and potentially discovering something about Tom that they didn't need to know. It was bad enough that she herself was going against the Slytherin's express wishes, she didn't need to drag Harry and Ron into it as well.

The Library was a comfort to her, although its sheer size always made it difficult to know where to start new research projects. Wandlore was a surprisingly vast and complicated subject; she came to find out that there was a lot of theory involved in the making and usage of wands. History, too, provided more information than she was able to comb through on her own—it seemed as if fantastical legends had sprung up about the wand of every famous witch or wizard through the ages. In a couple of years, she had no doubt that there would be stories about even Harry's wand, despite it having little to do with _why_ he was famous.

Hermione's search quickly began to slow down to an idle. There weren't really directories for looking up someone's wand—unless there was one in the Ministry somewhere—and even if there had been she wouldn't have known where to start. After having been his friend for so long, it was uncomfortably disconcerting to realise that the only things she really knew about Tom for certain were his name and that he'd grown up in a place called Wool's. The futility of her search began to press down upon her; she'd been in this position twice before and she still had no idea where she was meant to find her answers. If she didn't get a move on, Quidditch practice would be over before she discovered anything helpful.

Restlessly, discontent, she left the Library, wandering the castle as she tried to regroup her thoughts. She couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she'd seen a collection of photographs about wands once. _Something about Prefects_ , she thought distantly, _or maybe test scores_. It was a longshot that the wand she was looking for would be there, but if she could find those pictures again then she could at least satisfy her curiousity. However, flustered as she was, she couldn't quite remember where that display had been. One of the portrait galleries, perhaps? Or by the 'desperately wanted to be a Charms classroom' broom cupboard? There were so many alcoves, hidden rooms, and strange architectural quirks around Hogwarts that it was nearly impossible to trace two and a half months of her own movements. She was certain that she had glimpsed the photos before the troll incident—where had she spent the most time prior to Halloween? The answer was the Library, of course, but that had already been a bust. She knew it couldn't have been in any of the study rooms because, with the notable exception of the one hidden in the Astronomy Tower, they were usually quite free of decorations and distractions, something that Percy…

Percy! That was it! The Gryffindor Prefect took his duty to guide First Years quite seriously, and he'd developed something of a soft spot for Hermione—she had a feeling that she simultaneously reminded him of himself _and_ his younger sister. In an effort to cheer her up one day, he had taken Hermione to the Hall of Academic Excellence. It was a largely unvisited room, museum-like in its dry presentation of exemplary O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. scores. Percy had delighted in pointing certain cases out to her, assuring her that there was nothing _wrong_ with being a know-it-all, that cleverness had its rewards, and if she studied hard she could even make it onto the Wall of Wands. At the time, Hermione had thought the Wall of Wands was a bit silly—why reward academic excellence with a picture of a wand instead of a portrait of the person in question?—but now she was grateful for it.

The Hall was quite empty when she arrived; she had a feeling that most students didn't even know it existed, and she wasn't sure whether to blame that upon how close it was to the out-of-bounds corridor or on a stunning lack of academic ambition. Either way, it was just as well, because it was more comfortable to have the room to herself. Hermione strolled leisurely up and down the displays, working up her nerve to glance at the Wall. She wanted to tell herself that the chances of Tom's wand being up there were low, but the lie was too ridiculous to believe. This was exactly the sort of place that he would strive to be commemorated in, and given what a painfully clever boy he was there was really no doubt that his name would be here somewhere.

The reality of what she was doing made her breath slip out of her shakily, because no matter how noble her intentions—and they _were_ noble; she was only trying to protect him, just as he had tried to protect her—this was still a betrayal of trust. A normally quiet part of her brain, a part that sounded suspiciously like an eight year old orphan from the roughest part of London, hissed that there was nothing to worry about, that this was only fair. Tom had already betrayed her trust, hadn't he? For no reason other than the simple fact that he could, he'd lied to her for three years straight, made her jump through hoops to learn the truth; at least her betrayal was borne out of desperation and concern for his well-being. And really, this only made them even, didn't it? Tit for tat, as he liked to say. With a rough swallow, she finally came to stand before the Wall. Even with all her justifications, she knew that what she was about to do was wrong.

She looked anyway.

Given how old the school was, the Wall of Wands did not contain so many photographs as one might have assumed. Then again, perhaps that wasn't so surprising—given the caliber of exam scores immortalised within the Hall, she figured the sort of student worthy of the Wall only came around once in a great while. The pictures had been hung chronologically, so she started with the most recent and began working her way back. A sad smile sprang to her lips when she almost instantly came across the wand of one Lily Evans—she was certain that was the maiden name of Harry's Mum. She made a mental note to show him the photo sometime; Harry knew so little about his past that she was positive he would be interested in even this admittedly small piece.

Moving quickly along, Hermione had almost given up hope on the twentieth century when she saw it: bone-white yew tapering to a delicate yet sturdy point, 13 ½ inches, and a Phoenix Feather core. The placard beneath the photograph said Tom, and her breath hitched before she realised it was not the same boy. Tom M. Riddle, whoever he was, had possessed a wand uncannily similar to her Tom—they even had the same first name, which was strange, to say the least—but they were not identical. Riddle's wand had a handle that was vaguely reminiscent of a femur bone in shape, whereas Tom's wand had been sanded down a bit to display the natural scarring and beauty of the wood. From the handle up, however, from the scant few inches that Quirrell might have been able to see, it would be easy to mistake the two wands for one another.

Curious, she turned away from the Wall and scanned the rest of the room, looking for more of Riddle. She didn't have trouble finding him: his O.W.L.'s had broken records in 1943, and his N.E.W.T. scores were still considered some of the highest that the Ministry had ever awarded. He'd even earned a Medal for Magical Merit—something she vaguely remembered Percy pointing out a copy of in the Trophy Room. It didn't escape her notice that the dates upon his various accomplishments handily fit within her window of what year Tom potentially haled from; it was possible that they were attending school together, that he even knew this Riddle fellow. Dare she ask—?

"Ah, Miss Granger," a voice smoothly interrupted her thoughts. "Just the person I was looking for."

The fine hair at the back of her neck stood on end. She knew that voice, but the cadence and the strength of it was all wrong. It _couldn't_ be—and yet it was. "Professor Quirrell?" she squeaked.

He was standing several paces behind her, closer to the Wall. As dreadfully familiar as his turban and robes were, nothing else about the man seemed recognisable: his shoulders were squared, posture relaxed and self-assured, and the constant tremble that regularly shook his limbs was notably absent. He wasn't stuttering, there wasn't a single hint of the verbal difficulties for which he'd become renowned; his voice _flowed_ , unnaturally soothing, and she couldn't help but feel that it wasn't really his voice at all. In fact, the changes in him were so absolute that it was almost as if a stranger stood before her, like something was wearing her Professor as a mask.

"I wanted to apologise for earlier," he—it?—replied, giving her a winning smile. Under the right circumstances she thought that grin might have made him look handsome, if a bit boyish, but at the moment it only made her skin crawl. He seemed to know the effect he had on her, too, because his smile only widened, twisting at the edges in a way she found disturbingly familiar. "I realise now that the two of you were quite frightened about getting into trouble. I wish I was in a position to encourage that sort of extracurricular activity—exploration is what being a student is all about, after all—but you know how difficult Mr. Filch can be. No hard feelings, I hope," he murmured silkily, beckoning her closer. "If you could just pass the word along to your friend—?"

"He's not my friend," Hermione interrupted immediately. This situation was a disaster and there was no clear way out of it—she hadn't expected that Quirrell would try to corner her for information so soon—but it was possible that she might be able to use it to her advantage. If she could convince him that she didn't know anything, that she just assumed Tom was a normal boy, then perhaps he would find her useless enough to leave her alone. However, that meant she would have to stop acting suspicious of him, would have to behave like the eager-to-please student she always was in class— _would have to step closer because he had requested it of her_. Her feet felt leaden, like all the blood in her body had pooled there, rooting her to the spot, but she eventually managed to slide forward a step or two.

He raised a brow at her abrupt tone, something she'd never seen Quirrell do before; usually he flinched at unexpected interruptions. However, his voice was not angry when he spoke, sounding blankly confused as he asked, "Pardon?"

"He's a _Slytherin_ ," she stressed, trying to paste on the sort of disgusted, self-righteous expression Ron often wore. Gryffindor courage only took her so far, though, and she had the awful feeling that her face was actually caught in a painful-looking rictus. "Of _course_ he's not my friend. We're just study partners."

Quirrell's other brow rose to join the first, amusement flooding his terrifyingly relaxed features. "Study partners, then," he amended gently, but she was sure he was silently laughing at her. "I confess, embarrassing as it is, I didn't quite recognise Mr.—?"

Hermione would never be certain what demon prompted her to tell the truth, but the name, "Davies," fled her before she even realised that she was speaking.

" _Davies,"_ he deadpanned, amusement mixing with disbelief.

It was clear that her strategy was not working—Quirrell was more suspicious than ever, and she was the only known avenue through which he might be able to assuage his curiosity. Her poor attempt at nonchalance hadn't fooled anyone. Gaze darting away from the young Professor, she morosely defended, "That's the name he gave me."

"I daresay it's a fake, my dear." The epithet, though hardly endearing, was not particularly unusual coming from a staff member, although it seemed more favoured and more acceptable from the older Professors. However, from Quirrell's lips it sounded somehow _vile_ —cold and mocking, yet indefinably, illogically pleasant. "Such a common muggle surname in Slytherin is unlikely."

"If that's all, Sir, I'd like to get back to my study," she said, gesturing vaguely around the room. It was a bit of an effort to hold back her grimace—why had she left the Library? It would have been easier to deflect his attention there, to brush him off without seeming overly wary or rude. "As a Ravenclaw, I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, Miss Granger. Enjoy your day," he conceded easily enough, although she thought she heard a cruelly patronising undercurrent hidden within his farewell. It was a cruelty that was proven quite apparent when he turned back around, dashing her hopes on a speedy exit, and offered her another twisted smile. "One final request, though. If you would be so kind as to tell your _partner_ ," he said that word the same way Tom sometimes said friend—disbelieving, sarcastic, and with enough snap to make it sound dirty, "that I'd like to speak with him, I'd be much obliged." Without waiting for her reply, Quirrell turned once more.

Hermione knew she had indulged in more than enough recklessness for one day, that she should accept his exit for the relief it was, but she just couldn't stop herself. It was irritating how clever, how powerful he seemed to think he was just because he knew something was off about Tom. Well, she knew something was off about Quirrell, didn't she? His uncharacteristic behaviour today was proof enough of that! "You're quite at ease this afternoon, Professor," she accused brashly.

Quirrell stopped in his tracks and the darkness—how could she have forgotten about the darkness; how had she not sensed again it before just now?—invaded the room in a suffocating flood. He quirked his head, looking at her over his shoulder, then smirked. "I'm s-sure I don't know what you mean," he stuttered mockingly in blatant self-parody. His eyes darted past her, lingering briefly on the photograph of Riddle's wand, his darkness seemingly replacing all the air in the room until he finally broke his hungry stare and left.

Desperately trying to catch her breath, Hermione backed into the Wall and slid down to the floor. The dangerous waters she had suddenly found herself in made her heart race, her hands shake—Tom's insistence that she not go anywhere alone suddenly didn't seem so archaically silly after all. For some reason, Quirrell had deliberately let her peek behind the curtains, to see the truth of him, and that truth was monstrous. He was faking his vulnerabilities, although to what end she could only guess. Letting her know that was like a slap in the face, a declaration that he was on to her and didn't consider her potentially incriminating accusation any sort of danger to himself. Whether he was being controlled or working autonomously, it was clear the Professor presented a threat the likes of which only Tom had been able to fully perceive.

It took a few minutes to get her panic under control, to stand back up on trembling legs. Worried that Quirrell might return, Hermione ran to the Library, shaken to her very core. There was so much uncertainty at Hogwarts now, but there was one thing she knew had to be true: after the nearly crazed way her Professor had gazed at the photograph upon the Wall, there was no doubt in her mind that the wand he'd mistaken for Tom's was the one that had belonged to Tom M. Riddle. And yet, Quirrell had requested to _meet_ him; whoever this boy was or had been, it was apparent that her Professor wasn't actually in contact with him. Was Riddle a potential ally then? And, if so, on _whose_ side?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, sneaky Quirrell's got something up his sleeve! (Or turban, as the case may be.)
> 
> My undying love to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to evilpoohbear, Evanelle, Lirimaer, Niabiaxmoi, FreyaFallen, earedien, plottinghere, and Rammy (ramofpride) for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	22. He Is A Mystery

Chapter Twenty-Two: He Is A Mystery

_Hogwarts, 1990_

Hermione closed her book and sighed in frustration. Over the past week, she'd done everything she could to look up more information on Tom M. Riddle, but so far it was all very perfunctory: he'd attended Hogwarts between 1938 and 1945, and had obviously been an excellent student in addition to being a Prefect and Head Boy. After that, she'd come up bone dry, frustratingly similar to her search for Nicolas Flamel. Even _Miss Adelaide's Book of Renown_ —which was little better than a voracious gossip rag pretending to be a reputable publication—had only mentioned Riddle in regards to his astounding test scores, and for performing some special service to the school, though it hadn't mentioned what he'd done. There were no pictures of him, no articles from school publications or The Daily Prophet, no hint of what the boy had been like or gone on to do. It was as if Riddle had stepped outside of Hogwarts and simply vanished, which was suspicious to say the least. Even more suspicious was how little presence he'd left behind at the school; gifted students tended to leave their mark, and she had trouble believing that someone as promising as he'd seemed had failed to impact the school at all. It was almost as if… but she bit her lip and tried to push the thought away. Because that was just ridiculous, wasn't it? There was no reason for anyone to erase his memory from the castle, and certainly not so sloppily—if they'd really wanted reminders of him gone, then why leave behind _any_ vestigial references to his achievements?

She didn't quite know what to do with her disappointment. Against her better judgement, Hermione hadn't told anyone about her second run-in with Quirrell. She'd wanted something—some explanation for why Quirrell was focused on Riddle, some proof of their involvement together, or at the very least some indication of why Riddle's wand should be so desirous—before bringing up her worries, but she'd found exactly nothing useful. Would Harry and Ron even believe her if she tried to tell them now, a week later and with no proof? She didn't wish to sound like the girl who cried wolf—silly, dramatic, attention seeking—but they deserved to know about the danger around them, even if they ultimately misattributed it to Snape.

Although, perhaps a part of her had stayed quiet for a different reason entirely. From a purely objective standpoint, nothing about her conversation with the Defense Professor, _or whatever had been wearing his face_ , was strictly untoward; his words had been polite, inquisitive, apologetic even. But their real conversation hadn't been conducted in words, it had been in the physical nuances: in his upright, domineering stances and careful, silky movements, in her shaky advancement and quiet, but resilient defiance. If she told _that_ to Harry and Ron, she had no doubt that they'd start to think Quirrell was secretly some kind of pervert. While that opinion _would_ direct their attention to where they needed to focus, she worried that they would do something reckless like try to threaten their Professor into staying away from her. Quirrell was a predator of a different sort entirely, and it would be a mistake to allow the two Gryffindor boys to assume he was after something so earthly as a taboo, physical gratification. If she were ever to use the word violation in conjunction with Quirrell, it would only be in regards to that pervasive darkness that she'd briefly struggled against. Not that the reality of the situation was any better—either way, he was a monster that knew precisely how to hide in plain sight—but it would be foolish to give them any reason to confront the man when they didn't fully understand what he was.

She hadn't told Tom either, which was definitely one of her worst ideas yet. Hermione couldn't think of a single way to explain why she'd been alone in the Hall of Academic Excellence without having to lie her arse off—something Tom would undoubtedly see through. Maybe if she'd found something useful on Riddle she could have worked up the nerve to broach the subject, but as that lead had gone depressingly cold she didn't see the point. Telling Tom that she'd dug into the past would only make him angry, and without any valuable information to counterbalance his temper, well… She could already predict how explosively volatile he'd react, and she didn't wish to argue again. It felt wrong not to tell him, but really there was nothing to say—they both knew Quirrell was dangerous, nothing about that had changed, and until she could figure out the mystery surrounding Riddle's wand there didn't seem to be much point in letting Tom know she was digging into the past. Besides, it wasn't as if she was digging into _his_ past, it was this Riddle bloke she was after! And if it just so happened that she managed to find Tom along the way, then that was simply coincidence and not her fault.

Except it was her fault, wasn't it? Because she knew she was not supposed to be looking, that she'd promised Tom she wouldn't pry into his life, that she was using Riddle as a way to justify her own curiosity, that it made her feel awful to go behind Tom's back like this—but it didn't stop her. She told herself that sometimes a bit of privacy had to be sacrificed in the face of larger problems, but that platitude didn't make her actions feel any less selfish. As strange and frustrating as it was that he didn't want her to know any more about him, it was still his right to keep that information secret. He wasn't being unreasonable about his desires, not really; being a time-traveler put him in a delicate position, one where it was entirely possible for her to learn more about him than even he knew about himself. How would she feel if someone showed up one day and claimed to know every action she took _years_ before she even considered doing it? Boxed in, certainly. Perhaps even a bit desperate to prove the knowledge wrong, which could lead to all manner of reckless or irresponsible decision making.

Her thoughts were sidetracked when Harry and Ron entered the Library; Quidditch practice must have ended early. They quickly made their way over, joining her at what had become their table—a nice, cosy spot near a window so that Hermione had some natural light to read by and the boys could daydream whenever they needed a break. A few of the older students sometimes gave them dirty looks for claiming such a prized spot, but no one ever shooed them away. She had a feeling that nobody wanted to be known as 'The Kid Who Bullied _Harry Potter_ Over _Library_ Privileges'. Uncomfortable as Harry was with his fame, there was no denying that the little parts of life were immeasurably easier thanks to him.

Harry slid into the seat across from her, all the while giving her a quietly reproving look. "You were supposed to wait in the Common Room for us," he reminded her in a hushed tone.

"Sorry," she murmured, drumming her fingers restlessly against _Miss_ _Adelaide_ , "there was something I really wanted to look up. Anyway, what's the point?" Hermione shot the boys an accusing, if somewhat tired glare. "You two don't even believe that Quirrell's dangerous."

"Not for a second," Harry agreed, "but Davies made us promise to keep an eye on you. And anyway," his gaze darted around in suspicion before he leaned in and continued, "with Snape sculking around it doesn't hurt to be cautious—you're not exactly his favourite student."

Hermione grimaced, because that was true enough, however, "I'm not his least favourite, either."

"I dunno," Ron chuckled teasingly. "The way you stood up to him during our first lesson… He looked so angry, I thought steam was going to start spilling out his ears!"

Harry gave a scandalised gasp and pasted on an overly affronted look, quietly crying out, "And here I thought Snape and I had something special! He made deathly overtures and everything—what an absolute tease!" He almost laughed at her grudging smile—Harry was endlessly amused by his own sense of humour, probably the product of having to find his own entertainment while growing up. For a moment, he let the easy peace linger, then made the conscious decision to focus and admitted, "Look, what if Davies is sort of right and Quirrell's being controlled by Snape to misdirect our attention or something? Seriously, Hermione, if you got hurt when Ron or I could have prevented it, I am positive that Davies would come screaming out of his own time just to strangle us."

"That's generous," Ron snorted, rolling his eyes. "Him being a Slytherin and all, I figure he'd just go straight for the Killing Curse."

Hermione jammed an elbow into Ron's side. "Stop it, he would not," she snapped. "Tom can be a bit intimidating, but it's only so that others don't realise how concerned he really is."

The redhead grimaced and gingerly pressed a hand to his ribs, grumbling, "He's sure got a funny way of showing it."

"He was raised in an _orphanage_ , Ron," she stressed, because he of all people ought to know how important family was, "in _London_ , likely during or in the aftermath of at least one of the World Wars—we can't even imagine the things he's lived through that he hasn't told us about." She barrelled over him when it looked like he was about to interrupt, continuing, "I'm not completely excusing his behaviour, but you can see why that might make it hard for him to connect to other people. Tom's got very few positive experiences to inform him on how he should behave. He's actually come quite a long way in terms of proper socialising. If you would just give him a chance—"

Ron raised his hands in surrender, wide-eyed as he replied, "Merlin's pants, Hermione! I wasn't criticising—" He winced at her sour expression, and turned to Harry for help. Harry, though, seemed content to let him dig his own holes, only going so far as to offer him a supportive smile but no more. Finally, Ron sighed and admitted, "Okay, I _was_ criticising. I don't see the appeal of being his friend, and I still think that it's stupid to put your trust in a Slytherin."

"Merlin himself was a Slytherin," she countered heatedly.

" _But_ ," he interrupted loudly, earning them a dirty look from Madam Pince. Lowering his voice, he continued, "I don't have to trust him—I trust _you_. Just don't ask me to like him or anything."

She knew those sparse words were about the best she could expect from him, but the sentiment was lovely all the same. At the very least, it was nice to know that he'd finally gotten over his initial shock and was back on even footing with her again. "Thank you."

"I still think he's dangerous, though," he mumbled, unable to stop himself.

"Careful Ron," Harry laughed, grinning wide, "you're dangerously close to becoming outspoken on that."

The redhead rolled his eyes, voice dropping as he regarded the other boy and pressed, "You can't honestly tell me you don't think he's lying to us."

"We definitely know he's hiding something, even if it's just the exact year that he's from," Harry replied with an easy shrug. "His concern for Hermione feels genuine, though. I mean, he gave us strict instructions to watch over her even though she was irritated by that." He shook his head and chuckled. "It's not exactly lulling someone into a false sense of security when your actions only serve to annoy them—that's something a friend does because they're worried. Wouldn't you do the same?"

Hermione glanced between the two boys and nodded encouragingly. "He wouldn't bother if he didn't care."

She admired Harry's easy acceptance of Tom's place in her life. Given Snape's relentless campaign against him and Malfoy's constant and unwelcomed presence, The-Boy-Who-Lived had very few reasons to tolerate or trust a Slytherin—but Harry was nothing, if not intrigued. If it weren't for the mystery of Nicolas Flamel, she had no doubt that Harry would have been doing his level best to learn everything he could about her time-traveling friend.

"I s'pose," Ron admitted slowly, grudgingly. "Still, might be nice if Davies could express that concern in a slightly more normal way. I mean, really, _Quirrell?_ "

"You weren't there, Ron," she snapped, tired of having to go over this again and again. Prejudiced as it was, she could understand them not taking Tom's word on the matter, but that was no excuse for not believe her either! "I know what I felt."

Sensing their mounting frustrations, Harry stepped in and placated, "Either way, nothing's really changed—we still need to be on our guard, and our best course of action remains finding out who Nicolas Flamel is."

Hermione wasn't really so sure that the Quirrell and Flamel mysteries were at all related, but if she indulged the two boys then perhaps they would indulge her in return. In that spirit, she turned to glance beside her and asked, "Any chance your parents might know who Flamel is, Ron?"

"Maybe," he shrugged, fiddling with the edge of her book, "but they'd be suspicious if I owled them about it."

"Owled?" She frowned. "I thought you were going home for the holidays?"

"Change of plan," Ron replied, looking sheepish—although it was anyone's guess if that was honestly for not having told her the news sooner or if it was something else entirely. "They're visiting my brother Charlie instead, so the lot of us are staying at Hogwarts."

Hermione bit her lip. As much as she had come to enjoy the castle, she couldn't imagine not going home for the holidays. She was homesick and nothing sounded better than spending some time with her family, going through the comfortingly familiar traditions of Christmas, and getting to sleep in her own bedroom again. "I'm sorry."

But Ron didn't seem all that bothered. "I'm not," he said bluntly, breaking out into a goofy smile. "I'll get to spend all that time with Harry, and we'll practically have the Tower to ourselves, apart from Percy and the Twins. That's loads better than it would have been at home, to be honest. I'm just sorry that I won't get to tell my little sister, Ginny, about the troll incident until summer now." Turning fully toward her, his grin dropped and he asked seriously, "Any chance your parents might know about Flamel?"

"They're muggles, Ron," she reminded him gently, "unless Flamel is universally famous, they won't have a clue who he is or what I'm even talking about." It never failed to amaze her how little Ron seemed to understand about the muggle world but, then, she supposed he probably felt the same about how little Harry and she understood about the wizarding world. Pushing the thought aside, she continued, "I could ask Tom to search around in his own time, but for all we know Flamel might not even have been born that far back. Honestly, I think the two of you have better odds sneaking into the Restricted Section."

"Are you really okay with this, Hermione?" Harry asked, shooting her a sympathetic look.

She wasn't, to be honest. Over the past few months she felt as if she'd developed a bit of a free-spirited attitude in regards to lesser rules, but this was something else entirely. The Restricted Section had to be restricted for a reason—what if it was _dangerous_ to enter without permission?—but even she had to admit that it was fast looking like their best prospect. "I just want to know what's going on," she replied evenly. "If that means that we have to break a few rules along the way, then so be it. Besides, it's not as if we're hurting anyone." It was, in essence, the same justification she'd been using to poke around the past, however in this case, at least, the words were actually something of a comfort.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1938_

Something was bothering Hermione and it set Tom's teeth on edge that she would not confide in him about it. She obviously thought she was hiding it well enough, but he could see the anxiety written all over her—pinched features, furtive glances, she couldn't have been more obvious if she'd tried. However, she wouldn't tell him what was wrong and he knew better than to press her on the matter; that didn't help him shake the feeling that she was hiding something from him, though. A part of Tom was aware that it was hypocritical to think so, but the idea that she might be lying to him about something made him angry. But then maybe he was just overreacting, maybe she was simply worried about spending day after day so close to Quirrell and his Dark Magic—Merlin knew, Tom hated that idea more than enough for the both of them!

He couldn't help but feel that there was something else going on though, something she wasn't telling him and he could hardly guess what. After being friends for so long, it was strange to think that there was anything he _didn't_ know about her. Had something happened? Had Quirrell threatened her and, if so, why wouldn't she just tell him that? He hated not knowing, hated the fifty-two years that facilitated that ignorance, but he didn't see what else could be done. He could not stay in her time and she could not be brought back to his, so short of making her recount every minute of her life that they were apart—and though Hermione hated lying to him, he knew that she would if she felt she had to—he didn't know how to get the information out of her.

Between the unspoken presence of her secret and the knowledge that she was actively in danger, Tom felt like he was nearing his wit's end; he wanted to keep a constant eye on her, but knew he couldn't. And the very real fact that her Defense education was spotty, at best, hardly improved his mood. He had half a mind to start tutoring her in Defense Against the Dark Arts, if only so that she might stand a chance of surviving a tough situation—in fact, if he really thought about it, he ought to tutor Potter and Weasley as well, since they were meant to be looking out for her. Loathe as he was to share his time with Hermione, it was clear that Quirrell had sabotaged their education, and the two Gryffindors could not help her if they did not know how. If Tom was to be honest—and, really, there was no point in lying to himself—he enjoyed tutoring, enjoyed the idea of shaping others with his knowledge. It was a bit of a throwback to when he'd first met Hermione and had endeavoured to teach her everything he'd then understood about magic. Even the potential presence of her little pets did not minimise the thrill he got at the idea of being able to properly _explore_ with her again. Who knew, maybe the two boys might surprise him and turn out to be halfway competent. They might even thank him in the long run, considering it didn't seem likely they'd be able to pass their O.W.L.s under Quirrell's guidance alone; he'd be doing them a favour. He would have to begin studying his notes as soon as possible so that he could figure out how to catch the three Gryffindors up on a whole term's worth of material after the holidays.

The Christmas holidays had snuck up on everyone, and Tom had found his bargain with Alphard perpetually delayed in favour of last minute exams and assignments. It wasn't until the very day the train was scheduled to take the students going home back to London that there was even time to consider venturing to Slytherin's room. Of course, Black was returning home—most students were—but Tom found this actually worked in his favour: it gave him an incredibly narrow window to hustle the other boy to and from the classroom with very little opportunity to linger. With any luck, they would have to move so quickly that Black simply wouldn't have the time to memorise the way there and back—the room would remain Tom's.

What he hadn't planned on was Black coming with his own coterie of guests. In Black's defense, bringing Andrus Lestrange along was a well-played move—he could watch the older boy for signs of interest or distress in an effort to piece together the truth. What didn't make as much sense was Eunice Macmillan's presence. Although, judging from the pinched look upon Alphard's face, Tom got the feeling that Eunice had invited herself along. Which he supposed was fair since they had brought the classroom up in her presence, not to mention the fact that she seemed determined to guard Tom from Alphard's callous regard. Her presence complicated matters, forced Tom to act on his best behaviour, but it was worth it for the petty irritation that it inspired in her cousin.

The journey to Slytherin's lab was filled with quiet chatter that became more and strained the deeper they ventured into the dungeon. Determined to obfuscate the way there, Tom led them through a series of long, confusing, and unnecessary corridors—there were more direct routes available, but he enjoyed watching his companions squirm amidst the ancient and foreboding stones. He took them through so many twists and turns that he was positive not a single one of them would be able to find their way back on their own. Eventually, they reached their destination, Eunice looking intimidated but bright with excitement while Andrus was already starting to appear a bit apprehensive.

Alphard, however, seemed nothing short of dumbfounded. "I…" he trailed off, swallowing thickly. His gaze darted from workbench to workbench, frantically trying to take in the whole of the ancient Potions lab. When his eyes finally lit upon the throne-like podium situated in the raised centre of the room, he burst out, "It's true! Slytherin's classroom!"

Tom raised a dark brow as he helped Eunice up the stairs—something he noticed made the other boy clench his jaw in irritation—and shot over his shoulder, "Didn't believe me, Black?"

"I had no reason to," Alphard replied bluntly. "No one knows who you are, Riddle. In our House, everybody knows everybody, so you being a mystery doesn't sit well with a lot of people."

Standing beside Slytherin's throne, Tom turned around and asked, "And now?"

Alphard pressed his lips together until they practically turned white, but he refused to answer.

Sensing the growing animosity, Eunice cleared her throat and pasted on a politely interested smile, inquiring, "How did you find this place, Tom?"

His natural inclination was to brag, and had be been alone with the two other boys he would have. He didn't want to put the Ravenclaw off, however—she liked him best when he played at humility—and she was still useful to him as a subtle means of controlling her recalcitrant cousin. Keeping that in mind, he gave her a shy smile and replied, "It was an accident, really. You see, I think Hogwarts was built atop an older fortress."

"And you went looking for its foundations," she guessed with a smile of her own.

From the corner of his eye, Tom could see Andrus Lestrange leaning against a workbench and desperately trying not to call attention to himself; it seemed that his foppish attitude was perpetually stripped in this room, incapable of keeping up the farce. He was once more gazing at Tom with that vague sort of horror he'd worn upon realising that the younger boy was the Heir of Slytherin. Lestrange had seen a hint of what lurked behind his mask and, if he had to venture a guess, Tom supposed it was a bit disconcerting for the other boy to now bear witness to his completely dichotomous politeness. Strategically, the Second Year had to understand the importance of his camouflage, but to watch it up close while understanding what laid beneath inspired a distinct unease in the other boy.

Not wanting Alphard's attention to shift from his cousin over to the Second Year, Tom turned back to his conversation with Eunice. "I wanted to see if there were any identifying marks left behind that could help decipher what this place was before the school was built," he continued lightly. He let his smile turn a bit sheepish and added, "There weren't any writings, but I'd say I've definitely found some of the remaining structure. The stones here are unlike any other used in the rest of the castle. I looked it up—it's bluestone."

"Like Stonehenge?" she asked, cocking her head as she studied the large podium before them. "But that would have to be quarried and transported all the way from Wales! Even with the right spells, getting them so far up into Scotland would have been tricky."

Tom shrugged, "It would have been worth the effort, though. Bluestone resonates with magic, even amplifies it to an extent." He traced his fingers across the ornate SS carved deep into the throne and thrilled at the little sparks of magic that bit into his skin. The bluestone reminded him strongly of the massive crystals that had been within the seaside cave—they both seemed to breathe and pulse with a power all their own. "The early students that got to learn in these rooms likely would have found it easier to control their magic here."

That made the girl frown, a half-formed hypothesis spilling from her lips. "But if easy control only works within these rooms, wouldn't that actually handicap the students? Stunt their growth?"

Tom considered it for a moment, but then shook his head. "I don't think so, no. They get the benefit of learning in a magically rich environment so, theoretically, by the time they leave the bluestones they'd be confident enough to perform the spells unaided. The effects would perhaps not be as strong as during their lessons, but it would still work."

"Is that what you do?" Black asked loudly, suddenly right behind the pair of academics.

"Alphard," Eunice chastised her cousin warningly, but the boy paid her no mind.

Black slid smoothly between the pair, forcing them to step back from each other. Tom wasn't precisely sure what the other Slytherin was getting so defensive about—he'd been socialising with Miss Macmillan for quite some time, so it seemed strange that he should begin to take exception to their companionship only now. With a snort of disbelief, Alphard spoke over his cousin, "You're top in the class, but no one seems to know where you go outside of lessons—you're certainly not in the Library as much as your marks would indicate you should be."

Black was suspicious of him, but it wasn't exactly clear what he was accusing Tom of. Unable to keep a hint of self-praise out of his voice, Tom replied, "As much as you'd like to think that my uncertain pedigree would make me resort to cheating, the truth of the matter is just that I'm talented."

Andrus Lestrange made not a single sound, and yet somehow managed to draw all gazes as he went sickly pale at the mention of pedigree.

"Full of yourself, you mean," Alphard shot back instantly, but his eyes lingered consideringly upon the older Slytherin. A frown marred his dark features, the wheels beginning to spin.

"Black, it isn't arrogance if it's true," Tom chuckled, restraining himself from outright laughing, if only because of Eunice's presence. "You said it yourself, I'm top in our class."

Seemingly changing subjects at random, the other First Year boy gazed out upon the room and pondered, "I don't think anyone's been this deep into the dungeons in generations. I wonder why?"

Confused by the abrupt conversation shift, Eunice drew closer to her cousin and asked, "What do you mean?"

"Hogwarts has gone through a couple of renovations and expansions over the years, but you'd almost think something like this would have to be deliberate," Alphard replied quietly. "I mean, it's _Salazar Slytherin's_ classroom; there's no reason to lose track of that unless you wanted to." He paused and frowned before calling down to the Second Year, "Are you alright, Andrus? You look like you're going to be sick."

Indeed, Lestrange was looking a bit green around the face now. Tom wasn't sure if it was the effort to keep his tongue silent that was taking such a toll on him, or simply the disquieting atmosphere of the room; perhaps he really was overwhelmed. "There's something strange about this place," Andrus finally replied, sounding a bit strangled. "The air is heavy, like something here is alive. It's unsettling."

Eunice looked excited once more, rushing to ask, "Do you think Slytherin's magic still lingers here?"

There was a familiar hint of darkness in the air, not terribly unlike the deathly shade he'd encountered in the future. He supposed it was possible that the stones had absorbed a bit of character from its inhabitants, but he had the feeling that the most Slytherin thing in the room was he himself. Tom's smile bloomed wide at that thought, twisting with just a hint of irony as he murmured, "Wouldn't that be something."

Andrus didn't appear to appreciate the humour of his little joke, rolling his eyes at those words. Tom might have been offended by that if it hadn't been the older boy's first truly unafraid gesture of the morning.

Alphard, though not in on the joke, rolled his eyes as well and practically snarled, "All the more reason to question why someone like _you_ was able to find this place."

Macmillan's eyes went wide and she angrily grabbed at her cousin's collar in order to haul him down to her level. "Alphard Ignatius Black," she began to threaten hotly.

But Tom interrupted with a soothing, silky tone, telling her, "No, it's alright, Eunice. I know what the rest of my House thinks." He locked eyes with Alphard, continuing, "I know the _word_ they use to describe me. You're wrong about my blood status, you know."

Though still clear across the room, Lestrange's flinch at those words, at the unspoken slur that hung heavy between them, was visible for all to see.

Alphard waved his cousin off—Eunice stepped back from him as if burned, muttering darkly under her breath—and focused on the older boy once more. His confusion was deeply apparent; he didn't know what to make of Lestrange's reactions at all, or Tom's proclamation that he was not a Mudblood as everyone had assumed. The only thing that remained obvious was his suspicion of Tom, though the precise nature of that suspicion was as murky as ever.

"Remember your promise, Black," Tom cut through the heavy silence. "After the holidays are over, you have to let me sit with you and yours in the Great Hall."

"Oh, don't worry," Alphard replied, trying to give him a hard and searching look, "there's no way I'm letting you out of my sight now."

Tom allowed himself a small smile, not so secretly amused at the other boy's nerves. "We should head back now; it would be a shame for any of you to miss your train." Wanting to enjoy Black's irritation to its fullest, Tom offered his arm to Eunice, having to suppress a laugh at how the other boy sulked at the gesture. Apparently far too annoyed to bother with subtlety, the young Pureblood quickly pulled Andrus into a whispered conversation as they navigated the twisting corridors. Tom only managed to catch a word or two, but he could guess at the nature of the interrogation. Eunice, meanwhile, couldn't stop telling him how wonderful it was that he was still giving her cousin a chance even though the boy in question was being perfectly horrid to him. Only time would reveal the true effects of their little outing, but Tom was fairly confident in considering the morning's events a relative success.

The group split as they reached Slytherin House, Alphard quickly taking over escort duties as he led his cousin toward Ravenclaw. Tom was left alone with Andrus, who seemed to shy away from even looking at him as he hustled into the Common Room. The House, thankfully, was already empty—eager students flooding the Entrance Hall in their excitement to leave—so Tom spoke freely, taunting Lestrange's retreating back, "Are you frightened of me now, Andrus? It was just a snake, you know. It didn't even bite you."

The other boy stopped, stiffened, hands clenching at his side. "You _spoke_ to it, _with_ it. Am I frightened of you?" He let out a strangled laugh as he turned around. "I know what you _are_ now, and the possibilities of what the Heir of Slytherin could further become are endless. The others laugh about you behind your back—"

Tom rolled his eyes and crooned mockingly, "Filthy little Mudblood Riddle."

The Second Year flinched at the slur, but continued, "—and I can't even tell them to guard their tongues, to stop slandering you within the walls of _your_ House. I'd rather not be anywhere near you when you get your revenge."

"It's too late for that, my dear Lestrange; _everyone_ shall feel my revenge." The younger boy considered him for a moment. He hadn't realised that Andrus had become so deeply alienated by his actions. Lestrange was feeling isolated because he understood the truth, and yet he had steadfastly kept Tom's secret despite the fact that divulging it might have eased his discomfort. Though not at all what he had expected the boy to do, Andrus's actions were admirable. And was that not deserving of reward? He could only string the Second Year so far along before he lost that tentative loyalty. Licking his lips, Tom decided to dangle a carrot for the other boy. "You've been… not kind to me, per se, but more helpful than others," he continued quietly. "I could be persuaded to protect you from my future wrath if you continued to provide me with support."

Lestrange slumped into the nearest chair. "What could you possibly need?" he asked derisively.

Tom followed suit, settling into a chair opposite the other boy as he explained, "I understand the emotional drives and basic social politics of Slytherin House but for all that, I still only have an outsider's perspective. You know the families, their histories, how they are related, who is feuding and who is allied."

"Macmillan and Fawley would both know all that," he replied wearily, rubbing the heel of a hand into one eye.

Tom pressed his lips together and gave him a chiding look—he hated these coaxing games, hated having to coddle someone and pretend that they weren't being completely thick, but it was necessary for the moment. "As Ravenclaws, their assessments would be clinical and lacking appropriate insight," he pointed out, secretly wondering why that wasn't painfully obvious to Lestrange. "You are a _Slytherin_ , you understand the value of _specific_ information. I'm not offering you the world, Andrus, but this is an opportunity to stand beside an Heir—and, when the time comes, I will not forget your help."

The older boy considered this carefully as he began to reconstruct his long forgotten mask of aristocratic ease. It was a relief to see the return of his truly Slytherin nature—the fear that had edged him had been amusing at first, but it would cloud judgement and impede negotiations. After several quiet moments, he finally asked, "What's your plan, ultimately?"'

The young Heir of Slytherin offered him a twisted smile, demuring, "It would be a bit rash for a First Year to commit to anything, don't you think?"

Lestrange rolled his eyes. No doubt recalling their previous conversations of social mobility and politics, he accused, "You're too ambitious not to have something up your sleeves."

Tom's smile softened as he considered the future—he had at least two Dark Lords to weather, one of which he might have to _personally_ stop from killing off large swaths of the population. He had admired both men for their destructive talents, learned what he could from their tactics, but he'd ultimately found both Grindelwald and You-Know-Who lacking in the end. It had never really crossed his mind that either Dark Lord had the potential to interfere with his plans, but You-Know-Who was dangerously close to rewriting them entirely. What good was taking over the wizarding world if he was really just inheriting the ruins and rubble from another man's war? He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named would have to be stopped; Tom had at least twenty years to build a powerbase and throw together a workable defense. In the meantime, he didn't see much point in deviating from his original plan. "I could see my way clear to taking over the Ministry," he shrugged nonchalantly, "if nothing else strikes my fancy before graduation."

Anyone else might have laughed to hear those words coming from a First Year, but Lestrange took them quite seriously. "Well, that explains Fawley, at least," he chuckled snidely, "what with him being the Minister's nephew and all. You really do choose your companions carefully."

"I'm choosing you as well, Andrus," Tom replied pointedly, "and you're the only one who has been allowed to see the truth of me."

"Is that supposed to make me feel privileged?" he snapped, but there was no real heat to the question—seeing behind another Slytherin's facade _was_ a rare privilege, and once the truth about his ancestry got out, Tom would be as good as royalty among their kind.

"That's your decision," Tom shrugged, knowing the Second Year's words were likely empty at best. "Will you stand beside me or not?"

Lestrange snicked, a confident sound that no longer belied the nerves he'd exhibited earlier that morning. "Better to help the devil than stand in his way."

"That's the spirit," Tom smiled.

The older boy shuffled in his seat, stretching his legs out before him in a casually lazy move. For perhaps the first time since learning about Tom's Parseltongue ability, he looked content—solidifying his standing within the young Heir's machinations had given him back a necessary measure of confidence. With a languid smile and a bored air, he commented, "I suppose you want to know what Alphard was whispering to me about."

Tom did not take offense at Lestrange's aristocratic act; it was interesting to study the change in the older boy, and it provided a useful example to follow when dealing with Purebloods. They considered themselves nobility, and in order to gain their trust Tom would have to act more like them. However, it could only ever be an act; noble as his blood apparently was, he knew that at his core he would always be the angry orphan from the wrong side of London; he would always be an outsider resenting the things he hadn't been given. That was alright in the end, though, because his resentment translated into ambition, drove him faster and further than the idle aristocrats surrounding him—they played at politics like the useless children that they were while Tom was quickly mastering the game.

He relaxed his posture and allowed his own smile to unfurl, the sharp one that showed off too many teeth and inspired a certain unease in others. Gesturing carelessly, he off-handedly urged, "If you'd be so kind."

Lestrange barely suppressed a shiver at how quickly Tom was able to mirror his mannerisms. His smile slipped a bit, but he managed not to tense as he replied, "You'll be pleased to note that he doesn't think you're a Mudblood anymore."

"Oh?"

"No," Andrus sang conspiratorially, "he thinks you're the product of a Pureblooded love affair now. A scandalous, unclaimed bastard."

"An illegitimate Lestrange, no doubt," Tom mused, drumming his fingers upon the arm of his chair. "He noticed you flinching whenever pedigree was brought up. Is your family prone to affairs?"

Andrus didn't seem offended by the blunt question, in fact he very nearly laughed. "Most Pureblood families are," he explained easily. "A lot of the marriages are arranged for political or financial reasons, and if love is desired it is found elsewhere. Those infidelities rarely result in a child, though."

As used to time-travel as he was, Tom ever so briefly felt that he'd stepped in the wrong direction and taken a turn toward the past. Yet, somehow, the idea that the Pureblood families still engaged in something so archaic as arranged marriages was not at all surprising—as he'd first observed in Diagon Alley, the wizarding world's mentality seemed stuck back in the Middle Ages for some reason. Returning to the conversation at hand, he pressed, "And when a child is born?" Because there had to be indiscretions—he'd witnessed enough back alley trysts in his short years to know that extra-marital affair were rarely so neat. Magic or not, bastards were inevitable.

"They're foisted onto a spinster cousin or sibling to raise, not given a muggle name and dumped off in an orphanage," Lestrange replied pointedly. "Alphard is either going to think that something is _genuinely_ wrong with you to have deserved abandonment, or that you stood to inherit an important lordship if you'd been acknowledged." He paused and eyed the other boy. "The real question is: what do you _want_ him to think?"

"I shall have to consider it over the holidays," the younger boy commented distantly, mind already running through the possibilities. "Would there be any benefit to the ruse?"

Andrus turned the idea over for a second, nodding slowly. "Though not as prestigious as what you really are, pretending to be a Lestrange would make you distant cousins to Alphard's branch of the Black family—perhaps even closer, depending upon your suspected parentage," he mused aloud. "Alphard would be more welcoming, more trusting of family, even if it _is_ illegitimate. His promises to keep an eye on you could very well turn from suspicion to protection. He's fiercely loyal to his relatives; he could prove to be a useful ally in easing your way around the House."

"Then let us hope that Black is the type to keep his word." There were problems with the idea, of course—namely the Rosiers and Carrows, who were much more closely related to the Lestranges and therefore in a better position to know that he was lying. Still, their open animosity might help convince Alphard of the falsehood. However, he would have to learn far more about Andrus's world if he was to stand a chance of pretending to be the illegitimate brother or cousin. In that spirit, he asked, "I don't suppose you'd be so good as to introduce me to some of your acquaintances?"

Andrus gave him a carefully chiding look and replied, "Not until Alphard gets you properly situated amongst the First Years. The older the student, the more skeptical they'll be. You need to start with the youngest relatives and work your way up." The message was clear: he was warning Tom not to get ahead of himself. As irritating as that advice was, it possessed more than enough merit to heed. "After that, new students will naturally fall in line; they're always given to trusting pre-established authority. The next batch of Firsties won't question you, but you have to be in position first."

Tom sighed. He was tired of toiling at these small steps—a part of him just wanted to shout out that he was the Heir of Slytherin and be done with it—but he understood the necessity of starting small, of carefully coaxing others to his side. However, that didn't stop him from grumbling, "Meaning I have only one term left to impress my roommates."

Andrus seemed amused by his sudden petulance, but did not comment upon it. Instead, he merely countered, "Your marks are more than enough to impress them. What you really need is to _own_ them, to get them so far into your debt they'll never be able to leave you."

He offered his sharp smile once more, lightly joking, "Trying to spread the misery around?"

"I'm not indebted to you," Lestrange pointed out evenly, "just very aware that irritating the Heir of Slytherin is not within my best interests. If protecting myself means that I have to sell out other Housemates, then so be it."

"I enjoy your practicality, Andrus," Tom murmured, nearly crooning, "it's bluntly honest." It was strange to have an ally in his machinations for once, someone willing to facilitate his ambitions in the hope of receiving fringe benefits. He'd never been one to collect hangers-on at Wool's, preferring to remain solitary with very few exceptions, but Andrus's help was proving invaluable. Distantly, he couldn't help but wish that he could tell Hermione the truth and bring her into the fold—her cleverness and steadfast logic would take them far—but he knew that her moral hangups would impede them every step of the way. As much as it sometimes felt that his life revolved around her, he just couldn't figure out how she might fit into his plans; ideally, he wanted her by his side, but he instinctively knew that she would not support his grab for power unless it was her only alternative. And that was only if he ever managed to bridge the fifty-two years between them in the first place. He pushed the thoughts aside, acknowledging that they were problems to be solved some other day. Returning his attention to the matter at hand, he instructed the Second Year, "Poke around over the holidays if you can, find me some useful leverage in case our Mr. Black falls a bit short in the social arena."

Andrus stood to go finish packing and offered him a crooked smile. "I might as well just move in with my Auntie Agatha," he grumbled good-naturedly. "There's not a bigger gossip in all of Europe. Aside from the Bagshot woman, I guess."

"Whatever it takes," Tom replied, waving him off. "Just try not to come back empty handed." His words were light, even, but Lestrange appeared to hear the warning within them all the same. Tom had no doubt that learning every relevant fact he could before classes resumed would turn into a rushed mess, but it would be worth it to have the First Years finally listening to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom's rise to power seems to be gaining a bit of traction, doesn't it?
> 
> Since a few people have asked about the intended scope of this story I just thought I'd put my answer here in the notes. If everything goes according to plan, Addendum should at least follow the characters all the way through Seventh Year.
> 
> My deepest gratitude to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to Prackspoor, earedien, Rammy (ramofpride), Angrypixels, Azhwi, Autumnistrying, and MangoSupreme for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	23. He Is A Writer

Chapter Twenty-Three: He Is A Writer

_London, 1990_

Hermione had been eager to return home for Christmas, wanting a taste of tradition and family, but she had to admit that the experience was _different_ now. It was strange to be surrounded by the familiar sights and smells of London, strange to realise how mundane her childhood home suddenly felt. Hogwarts had frustrated her in a lot of ways—wizards seemed to routinely do things simply because they could, never considering the logic or sense of it so long as the magic was interesting—but she'd gotten used to the castle's quirks and had even come to expect them on some level. Living amongst muggles now felt sedate to the point of being boring. She kept expecting something to happen, some whimsical explosion of colour and sound, but London had turned into a dull and grey landscape compared to the wizarding world.

That was a troubling thought, particularly since she'd only been gone for a few months—how much stronger might her opinion become after two or three more years? By the time she graduated, would she even be capable of relating to the earthly world she'd been born into? She loved her parents with all her heart, but she couldn't help feeling as if she were set on a path that was destined to lead her inexorably away from them. The more she studied witchcraft, the less they would understand her, and the less _she_ would understand _them_ in turn. It was divisive and cruel that her parents should never really get to partake of the world their daughter belonged to, never really understand the wonder and pure joy of wizarding culture—and all just because of an accident of birth, because they were muggles. It wasn't fair to them and, though she knew it was wrong, she couldn't help but pity them for it; through no fault of their own, their understanding of reality was crippled, incomplete.

Hermione had spent most of her summer catching up on history and culture and had loved every second of it, but the International Statute of Secrecy had sparked a hot flame of anger within her. How could wizards have taken that decision out of the hands of the muggles that it most effected? She couldn't understand the sense in it, and she didn't believe for a single second that the Statute was for the protection of wizarding kind. To hear her fellow students talk, it seemed that most magic folk barely even regarded muggles as human, and they certainly weren't afraid of them. No, it increasingly seemed to her as if wizards and witches held themselves aloof for purely selfish reasons.

She took a deep breath and let the thought go. Valid as her musings were, the simple truth was that she was only dwelling upon them because she felt lonely. Tom had been surprised when she told him she was going home for the holidays, and he'd barely visited her since. She wanted to believe that he kept his distance out of respect for her desire to spend time with her parents, but she had a feeling that he was really just avoiding London. Not that his absence was surprising—he'd always gotten a touch moody and reclusive toward the end of the year, lost in an angry melancholy that she didn't think anyone but another orphan would ever truly understand. She missed him terribly, but at the very least she was certain he would visit on New Year's Eve. It had become a tradition for them to celebrate his birthday together, though they studiously never mentioned that it _was_ his birthday for some reason. After so many years of wanton neglect, she had a feeling that such frivolous celebrations confused him. He always seemed caught between a sort of apathetically inspired surprise that anyone should care and a worryingly insuppressible greed for more. She did her best for him—everyone deserved a bit of special attention on their birthday, after all—but it never felt like quite enough. There was a part of Tom she never seemed able to reach, something quiet and fierce that she desperately wanted to understand but couldn't.

Hermione shook herself; she was letting her imagination run wild again. She'd been chasing shadows ever since learning about Riddle's wand, desperation and paranoia colouring her world in stark negativity. A part of her kept making up reasons not to trust Tom, continually turning minnows into whales because it was easier to be suspicious, easier to let go of the guilt she felt from lying to him and researching behind his back. Her decision not to inform him of her clandestine confrontation with Quirrell or the mystery of Riddle had seemed practical when she'd made it, but the more time wore on the more she was beginning to feel that perhaps she was just being stubborn. Stubborn or not though, Tom's temper was so wickedly unpredictable that she worried what would happen if or when he learned the truth—would his anger fall upon her for her lies and broken promises or upon Quirrell for threatening her? She had no way of knowing, and thus kept silent.

Craving a bit of frivolity to lift her spirits, Hermione turned toward her bedroom window. There was a small stack of presents lined up on the low shelf below the sill—when each had arrived by owl, she'd thought it best to keep them separated from her parents until she could decide whether they would find anything alarming or interesting. She tried to tell herself that she wasn't excluding them from this part of her life, that she was merely shielding them, but the sentiment tasted a little bit like hypocrisy and the sort of logic that had spawned the Statute of Secrecy. Grimly determined to ignore that troubling thought, she began unwrapping presents.

There were more gifts from the Weasleys than she'd anticipated. Percy she had expected; he'd sent her a lovely letter of encouragement and thoughtfully included a list of books in the Library that weren't part of the curriculum but would help round out her studies. She hadn't been certain Ron would send her anything since they were often at odds with each other, but he'd given her a box of Chocolate Frogs and some of his extra cards of famous witches and wizards to help start her collection. Most surprising was that Mrs. Weasley—whom she hadn't even met—had sent her a sizable tin of homemade fudge and a handknit pair of gloves. Considering that Hermione had spent the better part of the term feeling so overwhelmingly alone, this outpouring of kindness from a complete stranger left her feeling a bit misty-eyed.

The beautiful gift Harry and Hagrid put together dried her tears and inspired a grin so large she was sure her face was in danger of splitting. Harry, whom she hadn't been aware had any interest at all in Herbology, had pressed and labeled some unique flowers that were native only to Hogwarts; his shaky, chicken-scratch handwriting was unmistakable, as were the wry observations that floated cheekily around the appropriate labels. The pressed flowers were set in a beautiful frame that Hagrid had carved for her out of rich, dark wood, and she couldn't help but be amazed at how someone as large and wild-looking as Hagrid could make something so intricate and fragile.

Her next present was from Neville, who had thoughtfully put together a bright assortment of sugarless sweets, obviously having remembered the time when she'd tried to explain to him that her parents were dentists; she had been under the impression that he hadn't fully understood what she was talking about, but clearly some of it had stuck with him nonetheless. It was a very kind gesture from such a nervous and overall forgetful boy, and it made her resolve then and there to get to know him better. She'd entertained a wealth of uncharitable thoughts concerning Neville—everything from irritation at his lack of aptitude to outright suspicion that he was simply using her to better his own marks—but at his heart it was clear that he was just an awkward child who desperately wanted to make friends. Not so different from herself, really.

The second to last gift was a bit of a mystery. It had come by way of an owl she didn't recognise—a sleek, dark creature that had seemed extraordinarily haughty, even for a bird. There was no note to accompany the package, no indication of who had sent it; she didn't know many people from the wizarding world yet, and it seemed unlikely that she had any admirers outside of faculty members. Was the gift from a Professor, perhaps? An anonymous token so as to not appear to be playing favourites? The smokey-coloured tin wrapping easily gave way to reveal a wooden box—roughly the size and shape of a smallish chess board, but thick enough that it might contain just about anything. When she shook the box lightly she could hear a dull thumping from within, feel the soft glide of something smooth sliding along the polished interior. Only trouble was that she couldn't figure out how to open the box; there were no latches, buttons, or even seams to pry her fingers into, just solid unbroken wood. Its glossy surface taunted her, the faint filigree pattern spiking her curiosity even higher. The urge to whisper _alohomora_ rested just at the tip of her tongue, but being back in London meant she couldn't use any magic to aid herself; spilling the secrets of the pretty box would have to wait until she returned to Hogwarts, where she wouldn't get into trouble for underaged magic. A touch disappointed, she set the strange gift aside.

Hermione's final present had been delivered by one of the official school owls, and based upon the shape alone she could tell it was a book of some sort. Peeling back the wrapping, she was greeted with writing she hadn't expected to see and nearly dropped the lot in shock. There, atop a well-worn copy of _Curses And Counter-Curses_ by Vindictus Veridian, was a handwritten note from Professor Quirrell.

_Miss Granger,_

_I cannot help but feel that there is some lingering distrust between us—as I still have yet to hear any word from your study partner—and for this I must make amends. Thus, I give to you a book very dear to my own heart; I believe the pair of you will find its contents much more illuminating than the Hogwarts-approved curriculum._

_Please pass along to your Slytherin comrade that I am still most anxious to speak with him at his earliest convenience._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor Q Quirrell_

Somewhat naively, Hermione had hoped that if she ignored this particular problem it would eventually go away. She didn't want to tell Tom about her run-in with Quirrell or the Professor's demands to meet him, but it looked as if Quirrell was going to be insistent. What could she do? Exposing Tom to whatever was possessing her Professor was out of the question, particularly since that creature was under the mistaken assumption that he was a different Tom altogether. And even if the thing didn't care that he was Davies instead of Riddle, it still felt far too dangerous to allow it contact with a time-traveller. What if it latched onto Tom somehow and piggybacked a ride into the past? She didn't have the vaguest idea what that darkness was or even what it wanted, but she did somehow know that letting it escape into the past would have earth-shattering ramifications.

Hermione set the note down, mind buzzing as she stared at the book she'd been given. _Curses And Counter-Curses_ was not a rare text by any means—Flourish  & Blotts had had a whole display of them when she'd visited, and there were several copies available in the Hogwarts Library. The subject matter, though obviously not nice, wasn't dangerous per se; some of the spells were considered very minor Dark Magic, but none of it was anywhere near illegal. Most people she'd heard discussing the tome had regarded it as little more than a juvenile dueling primer. Why would Quirrell send her this? It occurred to her briefly that perhaps the book itself was cursed—that opening it might make her do something dreadful—but she discounted the idea almost immediately. Quirrell was still trying to negotiate with her and his gift was likely less about the actual subject matter of the book and more about the inherent flattery and temptation of offering her knowledge outside the boundaries of her formal education. She wasn't very impressed by his transparent manipulations. And yet, despite her strong urge to simply throw the text into the bottom of her trunk and forget about it, her fingers itched to crack open the cover and take a closer look. Quirrell had chosen his snare well; she was weak in the face of an unread book.

Hermione softly peeled the book open, promising herself that whatever laid within would not change her mind in the slightest.

Quirrell had inscribed something just inside the cover, a note that would have felt encouraging from any other professor. From him, it merely felt threatening.

_For a pair of dedicated students; may you ever find the answers you seek._

She flipped idly through the book, surprised to find more notes written throughout—theories, observations, and improvements sprinkled amongst the text and crammed into the margins—but those words had obviously been scribed by someone else, and quite a long time ago if the fading of the ink was anything to go by. The looping, elegant cursive was different from Quirrell's, spidery and more precise, written by a careful and lighter hand. She had no idea who this new writer could be, but she got the sense that they were devilishly clever. The writer's insights ranged anywhere from brilliant to horrifying: on one page they had devised a way to counteract the Tongue-Tying Curse through wand movement alone, and yet some pages later they had tweaked the already nasty Pimple Jinx into something that was outright disfiguring! It was a gross waste of intellect in Hermione's opinion, yet she couldn't put the book down; even at their cruelest, and the writer certainly was cruel to have penned a version of the Total Body Bind that eventually led to suffocation, she couldn't help but admire the cunning and skill that had allowed them to so thoroughly change Veridian's work.

It nearly made her blood boil to think that Quirrell had had something like this in his arsenal the whole time and yet had still managed to teach them three different, _completely_ _wrong_ versions of the Leg-Locker Curse. She'd lost her respect for Quirrell quite some time ago, and any lingering regard or concern she'd had for him now died a swift death; Tom had been right, her Defense Professor was absolutely teaching them poorly on purpose. She was still fairly convinced that he was being possessed by something, but now she couldn't help but to think that perhaps it was a willing possession.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1938_

It was a strange Christmas for Tom that year. Wool's had never been capable or willing to celebrate the occasion—it was just another day on the calendar that served to remind the children they had no money and no families—but Hogwarts went out of its way to make the castle and grounds as festive as possible. Hardly anyone had stayed for the holidays, perhaps only a dozen students remained, and yet everywhere he looked there were garlands of holly and pine, tinsel glittering along the rafters, portraits and suits of armor draped in the colours of the season, and the most ostentatious Christmas trees he'd ever seen had been tucked into what felt like every available nook and cranny. A part of him felt that the professors extensive efforts to decorate were a bit silly seeing as there weren't many around to appreciate it, but despite that sentiment Tom found himself enjoying the sight nonetheless. The glint and flash of their magical baubles was wondrous and soothing to him somehow, and he didn't feel his usual bitter urge to hide his own reactions now that there was hardly anyone around to see him marvel or look astounded.

Twinkling ornaments and coloured candles weren't the only curious sightings of the season, either. He had actually seen the Seneschal out of the Library for once, having what had looked to be an engaging if somewhat awkward conversation with Professor Merrythought during Christmas dinner. Stranger still, for the first time in his life, Tom had received presents on Christmas. In previous years, Hermione had been the only person that had ever tried to make an effort for him, but as he'd made it a point to never visit her on the _joyous_ holiday in question she had always given him gifts on his birthday instead—which he felt was an occasion even less deserving of festivity, but his Gryffindor rarely took no for an answer. She'd given him some of the nicest things he owned too, like that pair of strong, sturdy gloves that actually took the length of his fingers into account. In the back of his mind, Hermione had simply become synonymous with generosity, which was probably why he he'd been so bewildered to find presents stacked beside his bed on Christmas morning.

The Seneschal had given him a ring, a heavy band of twisted silver that she claimed to have found at the bottom of the Black Lake during her youth. Eunice and—strangely—Alphard had chipped together to get him _The Seven Year Siege_ , a book about ancient magical strongholds and fortresses throughout Europe. Fawley, too, had given him a book: _Putting the Whiz in Wizard_ , which was much more theory-bound than the title suggested, but nonetheless appropriate when coming from someone who seemed to worship theory above actual magic. His final gift had come from Andrus; another tome, this one titled _Preserving The Pure_ , which turned out to be a detailed history on the so called Sacred Twenty-Eight—the purest bloodlines left in Britain. The subject was somewhat distasteful to Tom, irritating in its shortsightedness and narrow mindset, but it gave him better insight into his Slytherin peers, which seemed to be Lestrange's mission in life lately.

The older boy had owled him almost every day with facts, rumours, and society gossip, paying particular attention to his own family in order to prepare Tom for the ruse they had both agreed upon prior to the holidays. Tom still wasn't sure if it was a wise idea to imply he might be an illegitimate Lestrange, but it was critical that he not lose Alphard's interest at this stage; he had only a few short months left to burrow his way in amongst the other First Years, a task that would be all but impossible without Black's assistance. And so, distasteful or not, Tom devoured every scrap of information that Andrus threw his way.

Christmas came and went in a thick haze of snow, speeding past Tom as he lost large swaths of time to his extracurricular studies. He nearly missed his birthday, steeped amongst all those books and letters, but when he finally realised that it was New Year's Eve he knew he had to visit Hermione. It felt like they had been apart for ages, but Christmas always put her in a saccharine mood, and he didn't wish to ruin it for her by his own bitter outlook—the yuletide continued to show him ever more clearly all the comforts she had that he did not, all the possessions and trappings that he could not provide for her—so he elected to leave her to her own devices. But New Year's Eve was _theirs_ : the one holiday they had together to celebrate life and new beginnings. That easy peace was more than enough to make him overlook the fact that she was actually celebrating his birthday as well. It was difficult to find joy on the anniversary of his mother's death, all but impossible to celebrate his own morbid, yearly reminder that he was inexorably trudging toward the grave as well, but Hermione was always subtle in the way she observed his birthday so he let her have her fun. For his part, he always chose to focus on ouroboros-like rebirth of the New Year.

The Void pressed at him, testing his senses, scratching at the nerve-endings of his very being. Two cosmic titans shifted slowly away from each other, either one trying to take him along with it until he felt stretched thin—like he was a bit of string that had been pulled to the point of snapping. Sightless and desperate to occupy his senses, to ignore the growing madness around him, Tom began to whisper to himself in Parseltongue. The rolling sibilations blocked out the wailing murmurs that filled the air, cocooned him in a way he wished his magic could. He said nothing important, replayed words and conversations he could remember having, recited the Lestrange family tree and then the Blacks' as well. Time became immaterial in the Void; below the spit and hiss of the serpent tongue, Tom felt he'd been trapped in the in-between for an eternity, but he knew it couldn't have been more than a minute or two. Did Time move differently in this place, or was it simply that much of a horrifying experience? Unable to answer that question, he steeled himself and thought of Hermione, of why he elected to make this hellish journey in the first place.

Seconds or days later, her room materialised around him. It took Tom a bit of effort to push his Parseltongue away, to shift English back into focus, but he was aided by the familiar sight of bushy, brown hair. "Hermione," he greeted her quietly.

She spun around with a small squeak, somehow still always surprised when he appeared. "There you are," she exclaimed, smiling wide. "I was beginning to worry that you weren't going to—"

"Hermione," Tom interrupted, shaking off the lingering effects of the Void. He had thought his magic was confused, but something _wrong_ still remained even as his head cleared, an unsettling presence contained within the girl's room. It was quiet and dim, but if he reached out with his senses he could feel it—a familiar and unwelcome darkness. This miasma didn't smother and overwhelm as Quirrell's did, didn't try to whisper or beckon to him, and while it was still wrapped in an edge of wounded decay it didn't taste so much like _death_. There was no denying that it was in some capacity the same darkness, but this version felt muted, as if it were dormant or sleeping. His heart began thumping uncomfortably loud, unforeseen concern making his chest tighten in panic. What was that wickedness doing here, in muggle London? How had it gotten so close to Hermione?

She slipped her small hand into his, drawing his attention before whispering, "What's wrong?"

He turned to assess her, black eyes sweeping for the smallest detail out of order. "Can you not feel it?"

Her grip tightened, confusion stamped plainly across her face. "What are you talking about?"

"Quirrell's darkness," Tom bit out, scanning the room for anything out of the ordinary. However, with the exception of her school trunk sitting at the foot of her bed, Hermione's room looked the same as it had for the past three years. "I can sense its presence," he insisted, shaking loose of her to pace along the floor. "It's not as oppressive, and it doesn't quite feel sentient in the same way, but it's here nonetheless. Did something happen?" He gave her another once-over, but nothing stood out; she had no apparent injuries, didn't seem to be acting under any compulsions. When he gathered his magic and coaxed it out toward her, he could sense none of the darkness there; her magic was as pure and powerful as it had always been, playful and eager to mingle with his own. "Are you alright?" he asked, reeling himself back, desperately trying to get himself under control—once more, the Void had left him raw and uncomfortably reactionary.

Hermione looked suddenly nervous, wringing her hands as she drew close to him once more. "Oh, Tom," she sighed, fidgeting in place, visibly working up the nerve to confess something. "I didn't know how to tell you, because I was certain you'd be angry with me, so I just…" She trailed off, gesturing listlessly.

His stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot. Was this the distance he had sensed growing between them lately, the strange silence he had known she was keeping? Softly, as if trying to coax a fellow Slytherin into indiscretion, he urged her, "Tell me what happened."

She was lulled by the gentle prompt, allowing the small walls she had built between them to come crashing down. "I did everything you told me not to," she admitted in a grave tone. "I went off alone looking for answers, and Quirrell _found_ me."

"Did he hurt you?" Tom asked quietly, though he was fairly certain he already knew the answer; he didn't think she would have been able or willing to hide an actual injury from him.

As expected, Hermione shook her head. An awkward silence followed the gesture, but she made no move to fill it.

"I knew you were keeping some kind of secret," he accused, a touch exasperated and… he didn't wish to say _hurt_ , because that was unbearably childish, but the fact that she hadn't confided in him or come to him for help felt like an insult. They were best friends, she was supposed to trust him with problems like this!

She shot him an exasperated look of her own and replied, "I didn't want you to worry or do anything rash—it was for your own good!"

He'd always admired her snap, the frequent and lively temper that kept her from being like the demure girls he'd met in his own time, but he didn't appreciate her heavy-handed attitude; in that way, he almost wished she was more like a lady from 1930's. It wouldn't do him any good to voice the thought however, as she would likely turn any admonishment into accusations regarding his own high-handed nature, which he couldn't very well deny. Instead, he attempted to appeal to her tender side, the part of her that was easily provoked into guilt, by pointing out, "I thought we agreed to share our burdens. Isn't that what being friends is about?"

But Hermione was never quite as predictable as he assumed—instead of wilting, she built herself up, eyes flashing with angry fire as she all but snarled, "Why is it perfectly acceptable for you to protect me, but when _I_ try to protect _you_ I'm the one being unreasonable?"

"Because your method negates mine," Tom snapped, running a weary hand through his hair, uncaring if he ruined the neat look of it. In a way, he was flattered by her determination to put his well-being ahead of her own, but more than anything else he was frustrated. After nearly twelve long years of considering the brunt of humanity to be beneath his notice, he'd bonded with someone who absolutely refused to be protected.

It seemed he was going to have to acknowledge the simple fact that he and Hermione were far too similar to successfully resolve the situation—they were both unapologetically trying to make the other feel as if they'd done something wrong while blithely ignoring any opportunity to offer forgiveness or strive toward a compromise. They were equally stubborn and opinionated and hated to be wrong, not to mention that neither of them were ever particularly gracious when their efforts were rebuffed. He knew that the only way to stop their disagreement from turning into a real argument was for one of them to bend, a prospect that seemed all but impossible at that moment, which was why he continued to lecture, "I wanted you surrounded by people, and instead you've been isolating yourself so that no one knows you're in trouble! Why would you do that? You're usually more clever than this."

She looked away, brown eyes closing him out for a moment. The fight didn't exactly drain from her, but it was apparently softened by memories of what she'd tried to keep hidden from him. "Quirrell cornered me in the Hall of Academic Excellence," she confessed. "You told me not to go poking around into the past, but I couldn't leave it be—I needed to know if he really did recognise your wand!"

His gut plummeted, an icy dread coursing through his veins. "I see," he replied blankly. Had she found him? Did she know the extent of his lies? Had she discovered what he planned to do with his future, and in what ways he might have succeeded or failed?

She reacted strangely to his level tone, peeking coyly at him from under her dark lashes. "You're not mad?" she ventured quietly, the brunt of her temper subdued now.

"I'm disappointed," he confessed honestly. Because what else could he say, really? What was done was done, and it wasn't as if he'd been mentally unprepared for this situation, he just hadn't expected it quite so soon. "I figured your curiosity would get the better of you eventually; it's just who you are." He studied her for a long moment, wondering if her opinion of him had been altered in any way—he didn't like that idea, didn't like the thought that some future version of himself could sway her opinion of him without his explicit consent. Resigned to the inevitability of change, he solemnly asked her, "Did you find anything?"

Hermione smiled at him, her sudden shyness melting away as she replied, "A couple of things, actually. Quirrell is definitely possessed, for one. When he confronted me in the Hall, it was like talking to a completely different person. Posture, mannerisms, stance… it wasn't Quirrell at all." She shivered at the memory of it, making him wish he could see what she'd seen. "And whatever, or whoever that spirit is, it seems to suspect that there's more to you than meets the eye—and it desperately wants to meet you."

That wasn't the lead in Tom had been expecting, and his surprise was so absolute that he couldn't stop himself from letting out a dumbfounded, "Why?"

"That was the other thing I found," she carried on excitedly. "Quirrell and his parasite appear to have mistaken your wand for someone else's: a boy—well, I suppose he's probably a man now—named Tom Riddle." His heart froze. She'd found him, she knew something about his life, about his future, that he did not. And yet… she spoke the name Riddle in the distant way one might talk of a stranger. Had she not made the connection? Had fate somehow kept her blind to the truth? Unaware of his internal turmoil, she continued, "When they caught us in that empty classroom they couldn't have seen more than the top few inches of your wand, yet they were certain they recognised it; once I found the photograph of Riddle's wand, I could understand how they made that mistake. I mean, they're practically identical; they're the same wood, the same length, the same core, the only real difference is that your handle is sleeker while his is shaped more like a bone of some sort. I doubt the Professor or his darkness are considering time-travel a possible theory yet; they probably think you inherited the wand or that you're related to Riddle somehow." She paused to take a deep breath, likely seeing a bit of the confusing he was experiencing. "Are you alright?"

Tom felt as if his brain was desperately lagging behind; connections, insights, and schemes usually came to him instantaneously, but he was having trouble processing so much information. Hermione had found him, but didn't realise that it _was_ him because for some reason the boy he would become did not possess the same wand. Or did he? In all respects, other than the handles, it sounded as if the wands were identical. Had Riddle—and wasn't it strange to think of himself in the third person?—replaced the handle of his wand for some reason? Tom had to admit that there was something interestingly morbid and intimidating about a wand shaped like a bone, but it seemed like an unnecessarily theatrical move; the magic he could perform should have been more than enough to impress and frighten others. So why the difference? What had happened—what _would_ happen—to make him feel like altering the appearance of his wand was an imperative step toward his future? Tom didn't want to know— _he did not want to know_ —because knowing negated any sense of personal agency, bound him to a set timeline of events that he either had to dutifully preserve or spitefully negate, and he didn't want that sort of responsibility! Yet he could not stop himself from asking, "Did you find anything out about this Riddle character?" Hermione's boundless sense of curiosity had clearly rubbed off on him.

"A bit, but it's all very perfunctory," she shrugged, a thread of disappointment lacing her voice. "Excellent student, record breaking test scores, Prefect then Head Boy, but that's it." Those were vague predictions, goals he would have worked toward anyway and thus didn't feel any sense of burden from hearing of so prematurely. It didn't hurt to know that at least some of his hard work in school would be rewarded, and he was somewhat relieved that Hermione hadn't been able to find anything else. "No indication of where he came from or where he went after graduation, and certainly nothing that would explain why Quirrell's so interested in him. If you ask me, it's almost as if someone erased as much of Riddle as they could, like they were trying to strike him from history for some reason—I couldn't even find a picture of him despite the fact that he still holds the Ministry record for the highest points ever awarded on the N.E.W.T.'s! Don't you think that's strange?"

He did, in fact. His relief that she hadn't been able to find anything of substance was quickly bleeding out into confusion. Had someone—Dumbledore, perhaps, Champion of the Light that he was—tried to sweep Tom quietly under the rug? He knew that their personal philosophies were incompatible, but what Hermione was describing seemed like an overreaction against a vaguely disliked student. Unless there was more to the story, of course. Had Tom thrown aside all of his carefully laid plans in favour of some more radical action? A failed coup, perhaps, would explain this careful and yet strangely incomplete editing of Hogwarts history. Was his future self even now rotting away in a prison cell somewhere? In truth, Tom would gladly accept that ignominy long before the much more simple explanation that he'd never amounted to anything worthy of remembrance, that none of his meticulous plans had come to fruition.

He burned to find out what had happened, what had gone wrong, but knew that knowledge wouldn't lead him anywhere he wished to go. If he gave in to temptation now, it would only spiral out of his control. For the sake of his own sanity, it was best not to know. With a bit of effort he forced the desire down, taking hold of Hermione's hand once more as he replied, "Let's not worry about it. Quirrell is more than enough of a problem; we don't need to go borrowing trouble."

She seemed a bit disappointed by that answer, but accepted it nonetheless. "Right," she agreed after a moment. "So, what do we do?"

"I don't know yet," he forced himself to say, the words tasting foul upon his tongue, "but we'll think of something." Tom paused, searching out with his magic once more. The darkness was definitely still there, subtle and quiet, and it stirred briefly at his touch but otherwise didn't react. He couldn't quite pinpoint its location, and while it didn't seem to be spreading, its presence so near Hermione made him nervous all the same. Squeezing her hand, he pressed, "You really can't feel that darkness?"

She was stricken by his question, as if her inability to identify the taint was a failing. Maybe it was. Maybe she was simply too kind of a person to be able to identify the taste of something so familiar to Tom. Biting her lip, she admitted, "I sense it sometimes when Quirrell is around, but I don't feel it right now." And she was clearly trying—her magic flared around her wildly, pressing into every corner and crack of the room, but somehow she simply was not able to latch onto the stain.

He let his own magic mingle with hers, gently pressing her senses back lest she perform an extraordinary bit of accidental magic. Knowing her proclivity for the flame, anything she unleashed right now would likely be devastating. Thinking quickly, looking for answers, he asked, "Did Quirrell cast any spells on you or give you anything that his aura might have lingered upon?"

Hermione took a deep breath and then turned to face him. "He sent me a Christmas present," she replied. Her face was tight with disappointment that she'd not thought of that sooner.

"What?" Tom frowned, watching as she scurried to her trunk to start pulling items out.

Piles of books spilled to floor until she finally found what she was looking for: a worn text and a letter. Tucking the book under her arm, she handed him the letter and explained, "I don't think the Professor means any harm yet. I'm sure he's just trying to flatter me into arranging a meeting between you two."

He scanned the short lines of the missive, but there truthfully wasn't much there. Hermione was right, in all likelihood Quirrell was merely attempting to bribe his way into a meeting with Tom. It was a well calculated move on the older man's part, demonstrated an insightful understanding of Hermione and her motivations, but it still didn't shed any light on why he was so desirous to see the young time-traveler in the first place. And if the parchment itself contained a hint of Quirrell's wretched aura, it was buried so deep that even Tom could not feel it; this could not be the carrier he'd been sensing. "Book," he whispered, rereading the letter—what better way to get to a bibliophile than to offer her what she most loved? "He gave you a book?"

She slipped the text from under her arm and held it up for him to see. " _Curses And Counter-Curses_." The book was clearly a number of years old and well-read; the cover was faded from use, the binding around the spine had begun to fray and peel, and he had no doubt that the pages were at least slightly foxed. "It's not rare or illegal or anything," Hermione continued over his assessment. "Probably not the sort of text a Defense Professor should be giving a First Year student, but it seems harmless enough. Is this what you're sensing?"

He concentrated on the book; there was definitely something there, but he wasn't sure if it was the same presence he'd sensed upon arriving. "Maybe," he admitted, frustrated that he couldn't determine any further than that. "So if nothing else, we know Quirrell will be persistent. I don't suppose you could burn that?"

Hermione, though clearly concerned about the book as well, instantly frowned at the idea of doing any harm to it. "He might ask after it," she argued, "or quiz me about the material to see if I've accepted his proposal."

There wasn't time enough to point out everything wrong with what she'd just said—namely that it sounded as if she was more than willing to give into temptation, blindly trusting that no harm could befall her at the mercy a book—so instead he replied, "I don't like that thing being here. It feels more like a threat than a gesture of goodwill."

"Perhaps you could write Quirrell a letter," she suggested, thinking quickly. "Make contact without actually _making contact_."

It was an elegant solution—acknowledged the Professor without actually giving into his demands, and allowed both Tom and Hermione to remain at a distance from him—but Tom was certain Quirrell wouldn't be satisfied with that paltry outreach for very long. Still, it was better than jumping into a physical encounter without really understanding what the Defense Professor or his parasite were truly after, and so Tom hummed in agreement while trying to think of how he might provoke the older man into yielding the most amount of useful information.

Hermione left him to his ponderings for a moment, replacing the book and letter at the bottom of her trunk. After packing everything neatly back into place, she returned to his side. "Enough of this gloomy business—there will be time enough to plan something later." With a mischievous smile, she slipped something from her pocket: a small parcel wrapped in glittering, silver paper. "I have a present for you."

* * *

_London, 1991_

The clock struck midnight, distant cheers and songs ringing out in celebration of the New Year, but Hermione paid them no mind. Instead, she watched as Tom opened his birthday present. He always got a bit strange about gifts, if she had to be honest; part of him was eternally surprised to be receiving anything, while a quieter, darker part simply took it as his due. And above all else was always the greed, the troubling impression that nothing was ever enough for him, that he always needed _more_ and _better_ —it shone in the black depths of his eyes, feverish and mad whenever he was struck by that peculiar desire. She did her best not to react, to allow him some measure of privacy in those moments when his guard was down. He'd once confided in her that until he'd received his Hogwarts stipend, he'd only ever possessed what he could nick off others; clothes, books, food, toys, everything at Wool's was communal property, and the only things he _truly_ owned were his school supplies. Between that and the lack of what she considered to be modern conveniences, she felt as if she understood how his greedy nature had been sparked, but she didn't know how to appease it or, better yet, simply make it go away. Tom had a worrying joy for his possessions, reveled in his sense of ownership, and until he got that under control, Hermione didn't know how to react to that behaviour other than to turn a blind eye.

Which wasn't to say that she didn't notice it—she always did, because greed was one of the few emotions that striped his defenses bare—she merely chose not to comment. What could she even say? _The way you run your fingers over your things, map out every face and flaw, the way your eyes smolder and burn, the way your face twists into a cruelly satisfied grin leaves me feeling cold and shaken and worried about you?_ Those words would only cause trouble, and yet she could feel them perched just behind her lips as she watched Tom do all those things—watched him twist and turn the small gift she'd gotten him as if he could brand it through his touch alone, make it a part of himself in a way that no one would ever be able to undo.

His long fingers stroked along the polished silver and he grinned at her. "A pocket watch?" It was not an elaborate creation by any means: a rather plain pocket watch, smooth and unadorned, a few spots tarnished by age, but the hinges were still tight and the watch within still ran perfectly. In fact, the watch was so unassuming that she was willing to bet no one would guess at its secret function.

"Sort of," she replied and, suppressing a shiver, pulled its twin out of her own pocket, "but the watchface opens to reveal a mirror." She demonstrated quickly, opening the watch and flipping back the little clock. "Go ahead, look into it."

Tom repeated her actions, looking surprised when he saw her reflection upon the small mirror in his hand. "Amazing," he breathed, his greed softening a bit into something more practical, more appreciative.

Hermione waved at him through the device, explaining, "Now we can talk to each other even when we're not in the same time, provided they work across that sort of distance, of course. They're supposed to grow warm when the other one has been opened so that you know your companion wishes to talk."

He laughed—that uncomfortably high and wild sound which had never seemed suited to him—in genuine delight. For once not trying to hide his own shock or interest, he allowed the emotions to burn brightly on his face, eagerly closing and opening the watch as he asked, "Where did you find these?"

"Diagon Alley," she replied simply, enjoying the quick warming and cooling of the device in her hands as it responded to its twin. "The shopkeeper said they were broken because the picture doesn't always come through right, but I haven't had any problems with them so far. And look," she held hers up to display the attached chain—a familiar strand of beveled, silver links, "I already even have a fob for mine." Though it still easily looped around her wrist, it had been quite some time since she'd worn the watch fob he had given her all those years ago, and she could tell that he was pleased to see its return.

The fevered moment passed, and Tom finally settled back into his usually calm and inscrutable demeanor. He slipped the watch into his trouser pocket and pulled something from his inner robe, chuckling as he told her, "I feel like my gift pales in comparison now."

"It's not a competition," she admonished, truthfully a bit surprised that he'd brought her anything. Aside from the odd bauble or two over the years, he had never really been able to, or perhaps even interested in giving her presents.

"Says you," he rolled his eyes teasingly. Everything they did together was a competition and they both delighted in that fact; denying so was just silly. "Here."

Hermione slid back the linen wrapping to reveal a hand-bound book, parchment neatly cut and precisely stitched together. All told, the book was no bigger than a small diary, but it was full to bursting with text, every subject arranged and meticulously organised in what she guessed was Tom's own hand. "Did you make this yourself?" she asked, touched that he would go to so much effort for her. His handwriting was a bit unpracticed, the lettering a touch shaky—it must have taken him a very long time to write everything out—and so she found it interesting that he had chosen to write in cursive. Most First Years she'd met simply didn't bother. Harry and Ron both scratched at their essays like chickens, their print unrefined and hindered by quills that had truthful been designed for cursive. Tom's handwriting was hardly perfect, but it was far more elegant than she would have expected from any boy her own age; penmanship truly was a lost art.

He puffed up proudly at her clear admiration, explaining, "I copied over all my Defense notes for you so that you don't have to depend on Quirrell's whims alone. We need to select a time and place that the four of us can regularly meet in order for me to walk all of you through this material."

Hermione wasn't sure what she'd been expecting him to say, but it wasn't that. "The _four_ of us?" she repeated blankly, trying to process what he was proposing. He couldn't possibly be suggesting what she thought he was; she must be mistaken.

"Trust me," he snorted rudely, "I'm not enamoured with the idea of spending my time in the company of Potter and Weasley, but if you don't know the Defense material then it's guaranteed that they don't either—and they _need_ to."

She wasn't mistake at all! He really was offering to relay his own Defense Against The Dark Arts lessons to a pack of Gryffindors! It was a curiously generous offer from a Slytherin, or at least that's what Ron would say once he found out, and she couldn't help but be flattered by the sheer amount of concern he must feel for her to have decided upon such a massive undertaking. "Exclusive lessons from Professor Davies," she crowed merrily. It sounded so silly on the surface—they were only First Years, after all—but he was definitely getting the better Defense education, thanks to Quirrell's interference. Besides which, it would be like old times: Tom relaying some fun new trick he'd learned while Hermione found a different, but equally valid way of doing the same thing. "Thank you," she told him earnestly.

Tom stared at her for a long moment, wheels clearly turning in the depths of his black eyes. When he finally replied, "I only wish I could do more," Hermione got the curious feeling that they were no longer talking about the same thing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dastardly Quirrell strikes again!
> 
> Sorry for taking that unannounced break there, everyone. Writing was starting to feel a bit like a chore, so I took a few weeks off to clear my head. Now I'm back and eager to get this show on the road!
> 
> As alway, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to Penwiper, Angrypixels, Prackspoor, Lirimaer, Azhwi, vassilissa, JuliaLestrange, adlyb, Aramona, gaudyaspoppies, and beep boop for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	24. He Is A Show-Off

Chapter Twenty-Four: He Is A Show-Off

_Hogwarts Express, 1991_

Hermione idly rubbed her thumb around the smooth door of the pocket watch, wishing she could flip it open and talk to Tom. The Hogwarts Express was far too busy to chance it, however; the train was full to bursting with prying eyes. Perhaps if Harry and Ron were there to shield her from anyone dashing into the compartment, she'd take the risk. Then again, if they were both there, she probably wouldn't have been feeling lonely enough to entertain the idea in the first place. Just as her fingers began itching to press against the little latch, the compartment door slid open.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Neville asked a bit tearfully. "Malfoy and his cronies have been stalking me up and down the train since we left London."

"Of course not," she smiled comfortingly, gesturing to the seat across from her. He shuffled over morosely, hunching in on himself as he huddled into the corner. His defensive posturing struck a chord with her and she couldn't stop herself from murmuring, "You know, they only pick on you because they think you're an easy target."

"I know," he answered with a helpless shrug. "I am, though."

Hermione worried at the note of defeat lacing his tone; it reminded her strongly of herself during primary school. Neville deserved better than to be plagued by the Andy Smythes of the world. "The Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor," she reminded him gently, trying to build up his spirit, "that has to mean something, even if it's just because you requested that it place you there. That takes a sort of bravery too, you know."

He regarded her for a moment, surprise reflecting in his eyes as he asked, "Did _you_ ask the Hat to put you in Gryffindor?"

"It thought that Ravenclaw would be a better fit for me," she confided with a nod. "But just because another House is deemed suitable, it doesn't mean that's where you _belong_. Do you understand?"

And yet, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd made the right choice. Gryffindor had called to her because she'd been in awe of the powerful witches and wizards that had once graced its Tower, but she had to admit that it didn't always feel as if she fit there. She had almost nothing in common with anyone else in Gryffindor, save studious Percy, and though she highly valued her relationship with Harry and Ron she had to admit that it had been a hard fought battle just to gain their attention.

Maybe the Hat had been right, maybe she would have been more comfortable in Ravenclaw. However, something about that selection hadn't sat well with her—Ravenclaw had its share of innovators and they prized knowledge just as she did, but… Well, their attitude had struck her as rather dull and useless. She didn't just want to know everything, she wanted to _do_ everything as well, make some grand discovery or change. She wanted to leave her mark on society, to prove to everyone who'd been so quick to judge that they'd been wrong about her, that she wasn't just a know-it-all, that she'd been able to apply herself in order to achieve things they'd never even dreamt of doing. It wasn't a very Ravenclaw-like desire, to be honest; wasn't very Gryffindor-like, either. In fact, it tasted a bit like _ambition_.

Visions of green and silver flashed through her mind, but she pushed them aside. Ambitious or not, there wasn't a House she belonged in _less_ than Slytherin.

Unaware of the turn her thoughts had taken, Neville dried his tears. Though he remained tucked into the corner of the compartment, he seemed heartened by her words. "I think so," he replied, giving her a wobbly smile. "But what do I do about Malfoy?"

She didn't really have any advice to give in that respect. Her own tormentors had taken advantage of her for years, and the only thing that had eventually warded them off had been Tom's steady and unexplained presence. "I don't know," she admitted, hating that she couldn't help him more. "I'm not very good with bullies either. A friend of mine keeps telling me that I need to stand up for myself."

He went white at the very idea, sneaking a glance at the compartment door as if fearing the Slytherins in question were sure to pop up at any moment. However, amid the hustle and bustle of students wandering up and down the train in search of friends, no one paid the two First Years any mind. Relieved that Malfoy and his goons were nowhere in sight, Neville confessed, "I'd be too scared."

"Of what?" Hermione scoffed lightly. The blond Slytherin was certainly annoying, but he wasn't exactly threatening or dangerous in her opinion.

"Crabbe and Goyle, for one," he replied, dumbfounded by her nonchalance. "Besides, Malfoy's better at magic than I am."

That sent her scoffing anew. "Nonsense," she replied firmly. "Getting a little nervous in the classroom doesn't mean you can't do magic. You just need to practise a bit more, that's all." It was probably generous to call his disposition simply nervous—depending on the Professor, Neville ranged anywhere from just average to an outright disaster; Snape in particular had the unerring ability to turn him into an hysterical mess—but surely that was a response that could be tempered! His problem was clearly more to do with the environment than talent; he got flustered and fearful around Slytherins. It had nothing to do with magic at all.

Her thumb brushed across the pocket watch once more. For one brief, mad moment she considered introducing him to Tom, that maybe getting Neville over his fears meant exposing him to them on a constant basis, but that was silly. Tom would almost certainly do his best to keep Neville afraid; he would find it amusing that this boy lacked Gryffindor's infamous brashness and courage. Then again, she couldn't deny that Tom's help might greatly benefit Neville; her Slytherin had a peculiar talent for teaching others. He'd hate having to reveal himself to another person—the more that knew, the more likely his secret was to get out—but she felt like Neville was trustworthy enough. Probably more trustworthy than Ron, if she really thought about it; Neville, at least, wasn't spiteful when irritated.

Tentatively, Hermione offered, "Once we're back at the castle, I'm going to devise a study schedule so that I can begin preparing for exams straight away. You can join me, if you like." If Tom said no to allowing Neville into their group then she'd handle his studies herself, but either way she was determined to help the other Gryffindor.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, clearly shocked at the offer. "I won't slow you down or anything?"

She gave him her best encouraging smile. "Not at all! By the way, thank you for that lovely Christmas present; it was very thoughtful of you."

Neville _beamed_ at those words, finally cheering up enough to unfold himself a little. They spent the rest of the ride chatting merrily and discussing their studies. Unlike others in their year, he didn't seem at all put out or intimidated by her enthusiasm; in fact, once Herbology came up, he returned it tenfold.

They eventually parted ways in the Great Hall—with a wave, Neville headed off toward Dean and Seamus while Hermione split over to Ron and Harry.

She'd hardly even sat down before Harry leaned close and excitedly whispered, "We found Nicolas Flamel!"

She stared at him for a moment, having quite forgotten that they were in fact even looking for Flamel. "Excellent," she finally replied, offering the two boys an apologetic smile. "So the Restricted Section paid off after all. What book was he in?"

"You're going to hate this," Ron laughed quietly.

Harry couldn't fight the smile off his face as he explained, "The Library was a bust at first; he was mentioned on a Chocolate Frog card."

" _What?"_ Her eyes went wide in shock. Of all the places she'd thought to hunt for information, collectors' cards hadn't been among them. The boys had to be joking, a friendly little rib because she'd gone home for Christmas instead of helping them search.

Harry's green eyes flashed with amusement, but she could tell he was being serious when he replied, "Yeah, on Dumbledore's." He shrugged. "Apparently, Flamel is an alchemist."

"Once we knew where to look, he wasn't that hard to find," Ron jumped in eagerly. "The man's over six hundred years old, so it's no wonder we couldn't place him in any of the modern history books we were looking through; he's not exactly a spring chicken."

"Six hundred?" Hermione whispered raggedly, feeling as if the breath had been knocked out of her. She couldn't conceive of a life that long—to see first hand as the world changed around her, to watch everything she knew and loved crumble away through the years—it sounded crazy and awful. And yet… the days were so short sometimes and there were always so many books left to read. She wouldn't mind spending a couple of extra years tucked into the Library, just until she'd browsed through the whole thing. Six hundred years sounded like bit much, though. "That can't be normal, even for a wizard. Is that what's hidden past Fluffy, some sort of magical life extender?"

Harry leaned in close again, his excitement palpable as he rushed to explain, "Flamel is the only known creator of the Philosopher's Stone which, in addition to turning any metal into pure gold, produces the Elixir of Life."

"So he's effectively immortal. I can see why he'd want that under heavy protection," she murmured. Although, truth be told, she didn't quite understand what something like the Philosopher's Stone was doing in the third floor corridor. Wouldn't it be safer if Dumbledore just wore it under his hat or something? The strange, shadowy security precautions that the Headmaster had come up with really only encouraged people to try stealing the Stone.

"What would Quirrell want with something like that, though?" she pondered aloud. It was a rhetorical question, but the answer echoed up from the back of her thoughts—a horrible, terrifying answer. Because it wasn't really Quirrell who wanted the Stone, was it? It was the smooth-talking, slimy darkness possessing him that wanted it. She wasn't exactly sure what that thing would do with the Philosopher's Stone, but she knew it couldn't be good.

"Snape, you mean," Ron corrected, interrupting her thoughts. "Besides, who wouldn't want something like that? The chance to become fabulously wealthy and live forever sounds like the sort of thing everyone secretly desires."

She thought that over for a moment. A few extra years was one thing, but eternity was something else entirely. "I wouldn't."

Ron gave her a funny look, sort of fondly exasperated. "I swear sometimes, you're not human."

"I'm going to regret asking this," Harry cut in, giving her a sideways glance, "but why not?"

"I read somewhere once that, statistically speaking, becoming immortal guarantees the eventual probability of getting trapped somewhere for all eternity," Hermione explained. Immortality struck her as a monkeypaw wish—brilliant on the surface, but fraught with danger underneath. What good was living forever if you were buried alive or trapped underwater?

"I don't think that's as much of a problem for witches and wizards," Ron replied evenly, flourishing his wand a little as if to remind her that they all possessed magic. "You could just charm yourself free or Apparate away."

"Oh, right." She ducked behind her voluminous hair, hiding her face as it flamed a bright red. Spending the holidays in London, forbidden to perform and cut off from magic had clearly affected her thinking. She tamped down her embarrassment, quickly changing the subject. "So you didn't get into any trouble sneaking into the Library?"

"Wait until you hear this," Ron crowed, practically leaning over the table in his excitement. "Harry got an Invisibility Cloak for Christmas!"

Harry shushed him, frantically looking around to see if anyone had heard, but no one else in the Great Hall seemed to be paying them any mind. With a conspirator's grin, he whispered to Hermione, "My dad left it to me before he died."

She had read about Invisibility Cloaks; they were incredibly rare and highly prized objects. Harry was lucky to have received it at all, lucky that whoever had been looking after it hadn't simply decided to keep it. A family friend or a bank manager, perhaps? Someone in charge of the Potter's estate? Unable to figure it out on her own, she asked, "Who had it until now, then?"

"Dunno," Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "The note just said that it was being returned to me and to use it well."

Wasn't that strange, especially since she'd had a relatively similar experience. "I got an anonymous gift too," Hermione confided with an undercurrent of frustration, "but I still have no idea what it is."

Ron cocked his head to the side and smiled bemusedly. "You can't tell just by looking at it?"

Irritated anew at her inability to solve this mystery, she explained a bit snappishly, "It's a pretty wooden box and there's definitely something inside it, but I can't figure out how to open the blasted thing!"

Harry gave her shoulder a calming squeeze, pondering aloud, "Who would send you a present that can't be opened?"

"There was no note or anything," she replied, getting her temper back under control, "I didn't even recognise the owl. Maybe it came to me by mistake?"

"Maybe," Ron allowed, not looking wholly convinced, "but owls are usually pretty reliable, excepting old ones like ours." He grew silent for a moment, his attention wandering away, clearly not very interested in this particular mystery. When his blue gaze finally drew back to his companions there was a teasing and slightly belligerent light within them. "So, how's your lunatic best friend doing?"

"Ron," Harry groaned, frowning at him in chastisement.

Hermione chose not to be bothered by the redhead's words—she couldn't control how Ron felt, and even though he was still being a bit boorish about the whole thing he was taking small steps toward tolerance. "He's fine, thanks for asking," she replied brightly, as if he'd honestly enquired. "In fact," she leaned in close to the two boys, unsure how they would take this news, "he's made a very generous offer to all three of us. Tom's noticed how spotty Quirrell's teaching is and has proposed a sort of study group to catch us all up on the material."

Ron bit out a hard laugh. "Does anyone else see the irony in learning Defense Against The Dark Arts from a Slytherin?"

Harry, however, was eager at the prospect. "Quirrell's class is a bit of a joke though," he argued seriously, trying to sway Ron, "and it is an important subject."

"Davies is just a First Year like us," the redhead scowled. "What could we possibly learn from him?"

"He's clearly got the better Professor, though; I could hardly keep up with him when we were practicing Defense together," Hermione replied. If this resistance was any indication, Ron was going to be exceedingly difficult at every turn, but he couldn't really afford not to attend the study group. "Besides, Tom already wrote me up a copy of all his notes, and if that's anything to go by then he could teach us quite a lot."

Ron seemed to be weighing the idea in his head, but finally gave in. Heaving a great sigh, he grumbled, "Fine, but only because I eventually want to pass my O.W.L.s."

Harry bumped shoulders with her, plainly excited. He'd confessed to her once that he'd been really looking forward to Defense Against The Dark Arts, and that Quirrell's classes had been quite a let down. "When will we meet?"

"We're still talking about it," Hermione admitted. "We need to pick a night when everyone is free."

"That'll be tough," Harry snorted, "Wood's running Quidditch practise whenever he can sneak it in, which turns out to be almost all of the time. I don't even know when the other teams manage to get onto the Pitch, because it feels like our team practically lives out there."

She grimaced at that; Harry's schedule was unpredictable at best, but surely he could appeal to Oliver Wood to get off one night a week for study. He'd be taken off the team if he failed any of his classes anyway, so it was really in Wood's best interest to allow it. Putting that thought aside for later, she broached the other big hurdle they were facing, "We'll also need to figure out where we can hold these meetings. It has to be somewhere secluded, where it isn't likely anyone will stumble across us."

"So not the middle of the Great Hall then, got it," Ron muttered sarcastically.

Hermione glared at him. How could he act like something that was entirely to his benefit was such a burden? "You could at least try to be helpful," she snapped.

Ron was silent a moment, weighing his options carefully. Apparently deciding that it wasn't worth it to irritate her right now, he replied, "I could try asking Fred and George if they know a place; I don't know if they'd tell me anything useful or even true, but it's worth a shot."

"Thank you."

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1939_

Tom stood in the shadows of the Entrance Hall, watching as students energetically filed back into the castle. Gone were the silent corridors—everyone was chatting merrily as they caught up with each other—and he knew in his bones that the extended peace of the holidays was officially over. The racket was deafening, a roar of voices that ebbed and flowed like ocean waves, cresting in delighted squeals and underscored by beleaguered but good natured groans.

He would miss the quiet, and yet at the same time he could admit that in the depths of the holidays he had felt at odds without the liveliness, the _chaos_ of a full castle. It didn't surprise him really, he was used to London, and London was always on the go; he craved the stimulation, the constant stream of sound and information. Without Lestrange's daily owls, he had no doubt that the break would have been an unbearably dull affair, perhaps even tedious enough to have braved Hermione's soppy Christmas cheer. Not that he held her high spirits against her, but he was in no way eager to ever endure them if he could help it.

A flash of dark hair caught his attention. Speak of the devil: it was Lestrange, surrounded by his customary cloud of extended family. And there, whispering urgently in his ear was none other than Alphard Black. Black's expression was pinched, but whatever he was saying seemed to amuse Andrus, much to the Carrows' displeasure. The exchange ended abruptly, Black storming off into the Great Hall leaving Andrus shaking his head, a secretive smile playing about his lips.

Tom could guess at the nature of their conversation; no doubt Black was eager to unravel his secrets. Tom would be more than happy to lead him down the wrong path; he had spent the entire holiday committing to memory every scrap of information—every frivolous rumour, urbane anecdote, and vicious morsel of gossip—that Lestrange had sent to him. The only way he could have better prepared to play at being a Pureblood would be if he'd actually been born one.

The Great Hall was noisier than he'd ever heard it. The start of term feast in September had been marked by a hushed anticipation, but there were no such reservations in January, it seemed. Everyone was eager to return to their classes and friends.

For a moment, Tom gazed at the Slytherin table and wondered what it would be like to see Hermione sitting there, waiting for him, anxious to catch up after so many days apart. The unrivaled desire to have uninhibited access to her, to be able to see her always and know that she was not in danger burned through him. A red haze settled over his vision as he indulged in the fantasy: Hermione draped in shades of green and silver, her temper keeping the other Slytherins in line while her talent and intellect swiftly proved their prejudices to be utterly baseless. Together, the two of them could turn the House into something new, something better—fueled by power, ambition, and cunning as it should have been from the very start. His housemates would squirm to know what the Heir of Slytherin truly thought about the state of things, and no doubt their delicate sensibilities would be offended by how he wished to change the status quo.

Someone brushed past his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. The haze lifted, revealing the Hall for what it was: a challenge of a different sort entirely. To control the Slytherins, he had to become one of them; it was time to play the abandoned aristocrat.

Alphard Black was surrounded by a gaggle of other First Years, mostly boys, many of whom seemed to be vying for the seats beside him. True to his word, however, Black had kept the seat to his right free, much to the confusion of his posse. It was obvious he hadn't told any of them about their little bargain—Tom suspected that Black had done this on purpose, wanting to see how he might react to an inhospitable welcome, but Alphard would soon discover that Tom was nothing, if not adaptable. He slid silently into the seat, not bothering to ask permission or offer a greeting—a calculated rudeness that the Purebloods themselves often employed. Besides, why _not_ take what he knew was meant for him?

One of the attendant boys immediately froze, a sneer creeping over his blunt features as if a rotting carcass had been tossed before him. "What do _you_ want?" he asked, glaring through watery eyes as his lips curled in disgust.

Black heaved out a sigh and chastised him, "Now, now, Yaxley, that's no way to treat our guest."

All gazes whipped toward Tom at those words, a heavy silence falling between them. He offered a sharp smile to the lot, but chose to remain silent—for the time being, it was Alphard holding court, and he was curious to see how the other boy handled his peers.

" _Guest_ ," Yaxley repeated incredulously. "Alphard, you must be joking!"

"He's a Mudblood, for Merlin's sake," another boy broke in, muttering angrily through his curtain of dark hair.

Alphard sniffed disdainfully, as if offended by their language. Chin raised, he cocked a haughty brow and replied, "I've found his company surprisingly stimulating."

A third boy joined the fray. "You know he—"

But Black had heard enough; he was obviously not used to this level of opposition. Setting his cutlery down with a sharp bang, he snapped, "You've seen him in class, you know what his marks are like. Do you honestly believe a _Mudblood_ could be _that_ talented?"

The second boy smoothed his long hair back to take a proper look at Tom, but he didn't seem at all impressed by what he saw. "If he's not a Mudblood then who is he?" the boy asked, grimacing as if he'd bitten into something sour.

"That's an excellent question," Alphard replied brightly, facetiously. "Don't you think so, Tom?" He turned toward the orphan expectantly, dark eyes glittering in anticipation.

However, if he was expecting an explanation so soon, he was to be disappointed. Tom's entire game rested upon Black being too interested in learning his secrets to turn him away. He'd take over all these Slytherin boys eventually, but they had to learn to tolerate him first. Outright declaring himself a Lestrange would be foolhardy—he could only imply it—and ultimately he wanted to be able to reveal the truth of his origins when the time was right. He had to work up to that, however, as most of the House currently despised him; calling himself the Heir of Slytherin right now would lead them to believe he was either a liar or delusional, and that distaste would quickly turn into hatred when he inevitably proved them wrong. For the time being, his plans were best served by cultivating an air secrecy; no hard feat, to be honest, as he'd always been controlling of what others knew of him. To that end, he offered a lazy smile and avoided the question entirely, casually asking, "Oh, are we on a first name basis now, _Alphard?"_

If Black was put out by his evasion, he hid it well. "Eunice spent the entire holiday talking my ear off about you," he said, switching tracks seemingly at random, "don't think she even realised she was doing it. Couldn't have praised you more if she'd tried."

"How generous of her," Tom deadpanned disinterestedly, shifting his focus toward his dinner. In truth, Miss Macmillan's mounting interest in him was good news, particularly since she had the power to sway her cousin's opinion over time. But affecting a casual boredom would irritate Black, and irritation would sharpen his curiosity. The trick was making sure he didn't offend the other boy so much that he became alienated.

From the corner of his eye he could see Black's jaw tense for a moment, his fingers drumming idly as he scrutinised the orphan beside him. "She's regarded as a blossoming genius amongst family members."

That nearly got a chuckle out of Tom. Eunice _was_ clever, of course, but the honey-blond couldn't begin to compare to his wild girl from the future—if she took it into her mind to do so, he had no doubt that Hermione could single-handedly put the whole of Ravenclaw to shame.

"Really?" Tom hummed mockingly, finally looking back up. "Of course, she's developing quite the eye for detail and she's always quick to recite a fact or two, but—and do forgive me for saying so—she's not particularly innovative."

Black's posse, which had sat frozen for some minutes now, seemed to hold their collective breath at that proclamation, gazes darting between the two combatants.

"I wonder what she would think to hear those words?" Alphard mused threateningly. "From the mouth of a friend, no less."

Tom laughed nastily at the very idea of Black turning tattletale. His love for Eunice far outweighed his dislike of Tom—he would never risk hurting her feelings just to spite the newcomer. And, even if the young scion did work up the nerve to relay those words, it was unlikely that Miss Macmillan would be at all surprised, let alone wounded by them. "I daresay she already knows my opinion, Alphard," he confessed lightly. "She is a Ravenclaw and I treat her as one." Frivolous as she could sometimes be, Eunice still possessed the unerring bluntness that all Ravenclaws seemed to share; she'd never been offended on the occasions that he'd shared a frank assessment with her. Merlin knew, they'd already spent hours debating theory versus experience!

Aware that his bluff had been called, Black huffed and switched tracks again. "Must have been a dull holiday for you," he needled, dark eyes surreptitiously darting up the table toward where the Second Years sat, "being separated from Andrus for so long."

"I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean," Tom drawled. He glanced abortively toward Lestrange before dropping his attention back to the table in what he hoped Black would misinterpret as a cagey sort of tell. "And neither, I suspect, do you."

"Watch your tongue, Riddle," one of the surrounding First Years growled, finally snapping to life.

Alphard did not seem at all upset by Tom's continued stonewalling; if anything, this latest turn appeared to have at least somewhat validated his suspicions—it was a far cry from actually confirming that Tom was an illegitimate Lestrange, but one hardly needed proof when they had conviction. Spirits lifted once more, Black offered Tom a genial if somewhat insincere smile, and quietly chastised the boy who had spoken, "There's no need for such boorishness at the table, Nott."

Nott shrank back at the rebuke, but the long haired boy—Dolohov, if Tom remembered correctly—quickly took up the issue in his stead. "You were calling him no less than a rat and a pretender before the holidays," he accused of Alphard incredulously. "What happened?"

"Indeed, Mr. Black," Tom chuckled, curious to see how the other boy might explain his sudden change of heart, "what happened?"

Alphard shot him an impatient glare, but quickly turned back to his comrades. Instead of divulging his suspicions or even mentioning Slytherin's classroom, he simply pointed out, "Andrus Lestrange has taken an interest in him, we'd all have to be blind not to see it."

"But the Carrows and the Rosiers haven't," Yaxley argued. "You would trust Lestrange's judgement above theirs? Without explanation?"

"I don't doubt that the Carrows and Rosiers may have their reasons for disliking Tom," Black replied smoothly, "but even you can't deny that Lestrange's opinion carries more weight than theirs. His family is beyond reproach; they are Purebloods in every sense of the word. Do you really mean to tell me you think someone like _Andrus Lestrange_ , who stands to inherit quite a sizable and _noble_ estate, could be so thoroughly fooled by common filth?"

Dolohov and Yaxley both snorted in disgust, a few of the other boys wore expressions of contempt, and Nott was so agitated he looked ready to spit. "So one Pureblood vouches for him—"

"But it's not just one," Black interrupted the pack of harpies.

All too happy to prod them further, Tom began counting off on his fingers, "Lestrange, Macmillan, Fawley— _Black_."

There was a girl seated adjacent to Tom, and while it wasn't clear if she'd previously been part of the group she now gave her opinion anyway. "Slughorn practically gets stars in his eyes every time you enter a room," she put in. So far, she was the only person at the table, save Black himself, who was honestly addressing Tom directly. Her eyes were cold and pale, assessing him with clinical detachment as she concluded, "He's already hanging some grand hopes on you, and you're only a First Year—I've been told he doesn't usually start cultivating until closer to graduation."

"I'm afraid our Mr. Riddle comes aptly named," Black slid back into the conversation smoothly, "we can only guess at the secrets he's keeping."

Tom had grown up watching the buskers and hustlers around London. The most successful charlatans always left their audience wanting more, so he ignored Black's pointed interjection. With a smile and a nod toward the cold-eyed witch, Tom tsked, "You've forgotten your manners, Alphard. Aren't you going to introduce me?"

Not one to be deterred, Black countered, "Make it worth my while."

"Come now, you didn't think it would be that easy, did you?" Tom laughed, affecting a lackadaisical grin he'd seen Andrus wear on occasion. Black's persistence was admirable though, and it played straight into Tom's hands.

"Tell me something, at least," the young noble pressed.

The other First Years seated around them seemed to be holding their breath once more. Only about four or five students had been part of the initial conversation, but it suddenly seemed as if most of the Slytherin First Years were listening in now.

Tom took a moment to revel in the fact that he finally, _finally_ had their attention. A part of him wanted to scream, wanted to watch their faces crumple as he laid claim to their precious House, but it was too soon for that. The cautious side of him demanded patience, that he stay the course with the plan he and Andrus had concocted. _Leave them wanting more._ With a careless roll of his shoulders, he parried, "Why so determined to ruin my mystique?"

Black pursed his lips, unamused, and continued to dig, "Or why Dumbledore seems so hesitant about you, perhaps?"

Tom was a bit surprised anyone had been watching him close enough to notice that. And, to Dumbledore's credit, the man hid his hesitations well: he'd never treated Tom differently from any other student. Then again, _that_ was likely the giveaway; all the other professors he had couldn't sing Tom's praises enough, and Dumbledore alone remained scrupulously, conspicuously neutral.

Tom glanced quickly around the table. There were a lot of eyes surreptitiously trained in his direction, waiting for his response. It was a thrill to pique their curiosity at long last—he would have to put on a bit of a show for them, to make sure that their fickle regard of him began turning in the proper direction. Of course, a little demonstration in Parseltongue would leave the most lasting impression, but it was far too soon for that. No matter, he had other tricks up his sleeve. Shrugging nonchalantly, he told Alphard, "Dumbledore was the one who delivered my Letter. I believe I shocked him over the course of our meeting."

Black cocked a brow in that familiar, haughty fashion of his, patronising and disbelieving as he asked, "Indeed?"

Smooth as silk, Tom steepled his fingers—in plain view of all, so that no one could later doubt what they'd seen—and wandlessly summoned several of the goblets across the table from him. "I can only speculate, of course," he murmured, running a finger along the rim of one of his purloined cups.

It was ridiculously petty magic as far as he was concerned, but a hush fell upon those who witnessed it. The First Years fell silent, their quiet rippling outward until those who'd missed it were glancing down the table to see what had happened. From several seats away, Andrus shot him a funny look—not quite the dull horror he'd worn in Slytherin's classroom, more like an abstract worry of his potential—but then just as quickly looked away. Conversation resumed in short order, most students baffled by what had caused the rolling hush to begin with, but the Slytherin First Years sat mute, gobsmacked.

The cold-eyed witch recovered first. She fluffed her auburn curls nervously but then shook herself and, practically leaning across the table to reach him, offered Tom her hand. "Cleantha Selwyn," she introduced herself evenly.

Selwyn… That name was familiar. He knew her from lessons, of course, though she seldom spoke, and her family was among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but Tom felt like there was something he was forgetting. It finally came to him as they briefly exchanged pleasantries—Selwyn had been the surname of one of the Marvolos he'd managed to look up back at the beginning of the school year. With her pale eyes and reddish hair, there wasn't much resemblance between Cleantha and Tom, but was it possible? After all these years, was he finally meeting a blood relative?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A show-off indeed, the little drama queen.
> 
> I feel like I'm forever apologizing for late chapters these days, but September has honestly done its level best to break me. My primary computer gave up the ghost about halfway through writing this chapter; nothing Addendum related was lost, but replacing the computer is turning into a nightmare. And if that wasn't bad enough, both of the dogs over here at Chez Ergott fell ill—one of whom very unexpectedly had to be put down, so the whole family is in mourning. I don't know how any of this will affect updates; for the time being, my plan is to stick to my sort-of-established bi-weekly schedule. (I'm also running behind on correspondences, but I still plan to reply to the previous chapter's comments, just not for another day or two.)
> 
> As always, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to Niabiaxmoi, Rammy, fatwithspirit, MangoSupreme, Angrypixels, sorainier, FreyaFallen, Prackspoor, Lunavert, earedien, and woofwolf (musicalheartstrings) for commenting!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	25. He Is A Mirror

Chapter Twenty-Five: He Is A Mirror

_Hogwarts, 1991_

The girls' dormitory was lively that night; Hermione chalked it up to the other Gryffindors wanting to enjoy the last few precious hours they had before the holidays were officially over. She did her best to join in the various conversations, but having been looking forward to lessons resuming for some time now her heart simply wasn't in it. Time away from the school had been a pleasant reprieve, but London's distinct lack of magic had left her feeling anxious; she was only too eager to feel the comforting spark of power flow down her fingertips as she learned some new, more complicated spells.

None of the other girls seemed particularly surprised that she wished to go to bed early. Lavender pouted at Hermione as she pulled closed the velvet drapes around her bed, complaining loudly that she was being a spoil sport—an annoying and unnecessary gesture considering they both knew that Lavender was only too happy to be rid of her.

Inside the drapes it was cosy and dark, prompting Hermione to cast a quiet Lumos. Wand in one hand, pocketwatch in the other, she darted a nervous glance toward the drapes. By now, however, the other girls were being particularly riotous—so long as she whispered, it seemed unlikely that anyone beyond her drapes would hear her. Mind made up, she flipped open the watch, waiting patiently for Tom to respond. She didn't have to wait long, he appeared in the mirror within a matter of moments—a bit hazy, a little indistinct, as if a fog kept rolling in and out between them, but it was unmistakably Tom.

"How are you?" she asked quietly.

His dark eyes—one of the few aspects of his image that came through quite clearly—rolled in impatience. Tom had told her once that he didn't see the point in greetings and small talk; she'd tried to impress upon him that exchanging pleasantries was only good manners. He'd laughed at that. A part of her was sure that he made the effort elsewhere, that she was the only one he expressed those sort of opinions to and she was never certain whether to be flattered or insulted by it. However, it wasn't as if he never conceded for her benefit—somehow, Tom always seemed to be riding that thin line between perfectly behaved and utterly without boundaries; his true nature was really anyone's guess. Above all, though, he was adaptable which he proved by offering her a rather perfunctory, "I'm well, thanks."

The holidays had left her in an odd mood, burning for a sense of connection while simultaneously feeling withdrawn from all avenues that might provide it. Perhaps that was why the stiffness of his reply, the deliberate emptiness he gave purely out of selfishness pricked at her temper. It was just like him to perform as expected while still twisting the sentiment to suit his own purposes. There had always been a strange blankness in his interactions, as if he were perpetually holding himself back, aloof from the rest of the world, and it seemed distinctly unfair to her. He rarely elected to share his thoughts or feelings unless it was to prove a point or win an argument. She'd often thought of him as self-contained—a quiet boy who had developed keen observational skills in order to compensate for his less than ideal circumstances—but it suddenly struck her that she was also as cut off from him as anyone else. A nasty thought, and despite the fledgling sense of trust growing between them once more, that realisation hurt.

The protracted silence sat between them, heavy and awkward. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Tom's features shifted through the fog and she got the impression that he was raising a brow at her. "Did you not want me to be well?" he enquired dryly.

Hermione couldn't stop herself from sighing, uncertain how to explain her sudden upset. A quiet voice at the back of her thoughts—a curiously bitter creature that she usually kept silent—murmured that he wasn't likely to even understand her point of view. As a younger girl she'd once imagined a chasm gaping open between them, and it was awful to realise now that, no matter how much they'd both come to understand and even rely upon each other, that chasm was still there. With a helpless shrug, she replied, "No, it's not that."

"Then what was that dramatic sigh for?" he demanded, a touch accusing. Not that she could blame him; from his end she was sure that their conversation had taken quite the bewildering turn.

"It's just…" She trailed off, suddenly unsure if she even wanted to broach the subject. Tom seemed amiable enough at the moment, but his moods were often fickle and she wasn't sure if she wanted to disturb their simple peace in favour of a topic she knew would upset him to some extent. The problem, of course, was that he never failed to take advantage of her silences—if she didn't speak up then nothing would change. Drawing upon her courage, she decided to forge onward and hope for the best. "Ever since I found out the truth about your traveling, I feel like you talk without really saying anything; you never tell me what's going on in your world," she explained. "Do you have friends, enemies? What's it like in Slytherin? Who are your Professors and what are classes like in your time? You know everything about my life, but I only get to know what you deem unimportant."

He laughed a little at that—a quiet sound that bore no true resemblance to the cold and wild reality of his honest laughter—it was like a huffing of air that expressed both derision and disappointment. "Well," he drawled in a transparent effort to avoid the topic, "aren't we feeling maudlin tonight." Hidden below his deadpan nonchalance was a surprising amount of weariness however, and she wondered for the first time if perhaps he had a Lavender Brown of his own to deal with. He'd hinted during their reconciliation that the notion of blood purity had caused him some amount grief; for as much as he embodied the cunning and ambition of Slytherin, she wondered if he was actually happy there, if he fit in.

But Hermione refused to be deterred by her sudden sympathy, instead pressing, "I simply don't think it's fair that I'm the one paying the price for your actions!"

"I pay my dues in other ways," he replied seriously. "I'm not unaffected by the distance between us, you know. There's hardly a moment when you are not on my mind, when I'm not worried for you there in a future that I can't be a part of all the time. My access to you is limited and that knowledge consumes me—next to that, everything else pales in comparison."

She desperately wished that she could see him more clearly in that moment, because while there was a certain amount of expected fondness in his words, she was almost certain it was being eclipsed by that chilling, feverish greed of his. Hermione squinted at the little mirror, but his expression seemed to shift and he carried on before she could decide what that peculiar glint in his eyes meant.

"Yes," he continued, unaware of her scrutiny, "I have friends, I probably even have enemies if I ever stopped to think about it, but they're not the same as you. They get the unimportant parts, Hermione—the excuses about where I was or what I was doing, the brush off to invitations to study together because I know they can't keep up with me." Tom had always been very good at selling his sincerity, whether he meant it or not, but she couldn't help feeling a bit flattered, a bit special, by his steady declaration. Then came those dreaded words—the ones that had ultimately torn them apart for so many weeks—and her instinct was not to trust him despite the fact that he seemed baldly earnest for once. "I'm sorry that you feel cut off, but in truth you've seen more of me than anyone else. You know me better than anyone else, even without all the silly little details."

His tone was laced with such a strong note of solemnity that she knew he must be telling the truth, and yet as he elaborated upon his hardships she somehow felt that there were still certain facts he'd elected to keep hidden from her, the nature of which she couldn't be sure. That was always the tricky thing about Tom, and sometimes she was almost convinced he wasn't even aware he was doing it: he kept everything close to the vest, no matter how trivial, because somehow holding onto that information made him feel in control of the situation. Having lived in an orphanage for so many years—the victim of changing tides, fate always left up to the fickle whims of uncaring strangers—she could understand his ingrained need to master the world around him. She only wished he would realise that his sense of empowerment didn't have to come at her expense.

Perhaps she was the one being selfish now. He was in a tricky situation, straddling a precarious line between past and future, existing in both but really only belonging in one. Was it wrong to want more from him, to demand all the little details so that she might piece him together like an exotic puzzle, so that she might finally understand all the little parts of him that had never truly made sense? It seemed his greed was catching—not that she felt her desire was an unreasonable one, but it wasn't exactly fair to ask more from him than he was willing to give. She couldn't help but want that balance between them though, to finally be equals in the truest sense. Left a little melancholy at that thought, she burrowed deeper into her pillow and quietly asked, "Would you ever tell me everything, do you think?"

"Merlin, I want to," he replied in an equally soft tone. She was surprised to hear the familiar burn of craving in his voice—apparently she wasn't the only one bothered by a troubling sense of isolation—however, his next words dashed whatever hopes had briefly sprung up. "But I know you, Hermione, you wouldn't be able to resist looking me up and you've never been very good at keeping secrets from me. I know I've said it before, but apparently it needs repeating: I don't want to know my future."

She looked away briefly, trying to push down her disappointment. It wasn't as if theirs was a bad friendship—though they certainly had their fair share of trouble—and they were seeing more of each one another now than ever before. But try as she might to be happy with what they had, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. "It's as if there's this wall separating us now that didn't used to be there," Hermione sighed gloomily, turning her attention back to the hazy image in the mirror. "As though however many decades keeping us apart weren't bad enough."

"I know," Tom murmured back comfortingly. For once it seemed that their desires were actually in alignment—if only he would jump that last hurdle and trust her not to tell him anything he did not wish to know! "We've never had an easy time of it, have we? There's always something standing between us," he chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "But you know what? I don't think we'd be friends in quite the same way if things had run smoother. We're both confrontational, competitive, and problem solvers to boot; any less friction and we probably would have drifted apart years ago."

She cracked a weak smile at that. "I suppose you're right."

"Cheer up," he urged, "we'll be studying together soon. Speaking of, how did your Gryffindors take it?"

"Well enough," Hermione shrugged, simultaneously glad and disappointed to be changing the subject. "Harry seems pretty excited."

"But not Weasley," Tom guessed with a derisive snort.

She found herself having to hold back an indelicate sound of her own. "We both knew Ron was going to be stubborn," she replied with an exasperated, albeit fond quirk of the lips. Then, remember the concession Ron had finally made, added, "He seems willing to give it a shot, though—he even said he'd ask his older brothers about rooms where we could have some privacy. If anybody knows of a place where we won't get caught out of bed, it's the Twins."

Tom didn't seem particularly heartened by that news and he narrowed his eyes, asking, "You don't think they'll get suspicious or try to follow us?"

"Fred and George?" She pondered it for a moment—they were mischievous to a fault, after all—but somehow she just couldn't picture them caring too much when they had devilish business of their own to attend to. At length, she answered, "No. As long as they think they're helping us to break the rules, they'll be happy. What we're actually doing probably wouldn't interest them very much even if they did learn about it." She paused once more, this time considering the venture they were about to undertake. There was no denying that she was excited to begin their extracurricular studies, but it seemed a very ambitious undertaking for a group of First Years, particularly with only one term left before the summer holidays. "Are you sure you have time for this, Tom?" she asked, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. "It's a big commitment, and I wouldn't want you to fall behind on your own studies; exams will be on us before we know it."

His image sharpened, the fog easing enough to see him more clearly. He was amused by her fretting, one dark brow cocked haughtily as he replied, "I don't have so much to do that I can't help out a friend. Quirrell's been indulgent with us so far, but that could change at any moment—the basics won't save you against someone like him, but they might buy you enough time for help to arrive. If that means I get a nine-out-of-ten instead of full marks then so be it."

She couldn't help but grumble, "Arrogant," at his impressively nonchalant demeanor.

"But honest," he returned, smile twisting the corner of his lips.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but decided to let him have his overconfidence. Instead, she allowed her thoughts wander to her Gryffindor compatriots and the secrets they had uncovered in her absence. The way she saw it, Quirrell was beginning to look like an even bigger problem than they'd assumed, and that was saying something.

She must have pulled a strange face at that thought, because in no time at all Tom was demanding, "What's that look for? Are you keeping secrets from me again?"

Brushing the accusation aside, she began to explain, "Harry and Ron found out who Nicolas Flamel is."

"Without you?" Tom asked, sounding genuinely surprised, which she found a tad insulting on behalf of her friends—they weren't stupid boys, after all, just occasionally frivolous and a bit shortsighted. "I have to admit, I didn't think they had it in them to do their own research."

She rolled her eyes once more, replying, "You're missing the point, Tom. We know what Fluffy is guarding now."

"Well?" he urged, sound both interested and yet undeniably bored all at once. If she had previously been unimpressed with the mystery of Fluffy, it was nothing compared to Tom's own disregard on the matter. As far as she could tell, he'd approached the whole thing as a mere curiosity, a simple distraction that paled in the face of a threat like Quirrell. However, if she was right, then that was all about to change.

"Flamel is a successful Alchemist," Hermione answered, "he's managed to create the Philosopher's Stone." There was a sudden tightening around his eyes and mouth—it had always pained Tom to admit he didn't know something—so she quickly explained, "It can turn any metal into pure gold and supposedly grants its possessor immortality."

He seemed momentarily stunned by that news, bursting out, "Surely Dumbledore wouldn't keep something like that in a school full of children—it's irresponsible!"

She couldn't help but agree; the Headmaster might as well have personally invited thieves to try their hands at breaking into the castle. Still, slightly mad or not, Dumbledore was said to be one of the strongest wizards alive, so he had to have some confidence in what he was doing. "Apparently he is hiding it here, though," she answered with a shrug. "I've read that Hogwarts is the safest place in the world, excepting maybe Gringotts. But the thing is, someone already tried to steal the Stone from Gringotts. In fact, they would have succeeded if the vault hadn't already been emptied."

And Tom, whose mind was so well-versed in thinking parallel to her own, understood her theory immediately. "Do you suspect it was Quirrell?"

"It's all a bit convenient, don't you think?" She gripped her wand a little tighter and began to lay out her thoughts as clearly as she could, "Harry mentioned that, along with a lot of other people, he met Professor Quirrell in Diagon Alley that day, so we know he was there at the time in question. Then later the bank gets broken into for the first time in history, but the clearly powerful robber doesn't make any panicked attempts on the Stone after that first botched try." Continuing, a touch rhetorically because she could already tell that the Slytherin was on the same page as her, she pressed, "Why?"

"Because he doesn't have to," Tom answered knowingly. "Quirrell's already in the castle, so he can take as much time as necessary not to raise suspicions."

"Exactly," Hermione nodded. She was hesitant to lay out the next bit of her theory, because this was where the logic got a little murkier and a lot more reliant upon guesswork, but she forged on regardless. "He's being possessed by a disembodied evil—what if that spirit's just barely hanging on? It's powerful, we both know that, but is it alive? And if it is, how? What's keeping it that way?" She shuddered to think upon her brief encounter with that specter—its oily charm and soft-spoken malice had revealed an unrelentingly insidious character. The thought of it being separated from Quirrell, unchained from the handicap of its parasitic nature, was terrifying. Her fright no doubt came through when she added, "Maybe it's after the Elixir of Life because it needs something more to help keep its inevitable death at bay."

Her friend paused, his mind whirling in a slightly different direction as he asked, "Is Quirrell being coerced, then? What would he even be getting out of this deal that would lead him to cooperate with such a vile invader?"

"Gold probably, perhaps immortality as well," she answered evenly, although somehow she doubted that the shadowy spirit was generous enough to share anything so unique as the Elixir of Life, "but that's only assuming he wanted anything to begin with." To be honest, she'd never really considered what the Professor's motives might be; he just naturally seemed like the toadying sort.

Tom was not particularly impressed with that last answer. "Who would go to such lengths for no reward?" he asked, sounding almost scandalised by the very idea.

"Someone who wishes to impress the spirit, or earn its approval," Hermione replied. It only made her that much more curious about the true identity of the parasite. Who could possibly be deserving of such blind devotion?

Tom's lips curled downward into a sneer, clearly disgusted by her explanation. "Wasted opportunity, if you ask me."

"Then I suppose we should all be grateful it isn't you," she quipped back lightly, but a part of her truly meant it. Her Slytherin was often too smart for his own good—what disaster could befall them all if such an evil managed to get its hooks into him? She didn't wish to say that his morals tipped toward the questionable side, because he had come a long way from that angry and violent young boy she'd first met, but there were times when decency seemed to fall away in favour of other considerations. Too often, Tom seemed to view life as little better than a game and other people were no more than combatants to be defeated. He could be coldly logical and was imbued with a strange power over Time, both of which could spell disaster in the hands of that dark creature—and while Tom had never been particularly accepting of authority figures, under the right circumstances she could see how a powerful and compelling monster might be able to twist him into a weapon of destruction. The fact that the spirit was already attempting to make contact with Tom only worried her further; they had to be kept apart at all costs. "Don't underestimate them," she advised seriously. A frown pulled at her lips when she noticed him ever so faintly rolling his eyes, prompting her to accuse, "I know you, Tom—you think less of them because they don't take advantage of things the way you would have, but that doesn't mean they're weak."

"Hermione, if there's only one thing I know right now, it's how much of a danger Quirrell presents to you," he replied in exasperation. "I can take the threat seriously and still find it somewhat lacking, you know. I'm not underestimating them; if anything, I'm thankful that they aren't as competent as they could be."

His words were only vaguely comforting and she couldn't help pressing the issue, concerned about where his true thoughts might lie. "You have a tendency to lose perspective," she warned him, "too caught up in the small details—"

The fog rolled back across her mirror, but she hardly needed to see him to know that he was angry now. Voice low and heated, he snapped, "You're one to talk!"

"I'm just asking that you stay focused on the larger picture," she replied, aiming for soothing—though she rather felt she missed the mark and ended up more around nagging.

"Yes, My Lady," he bit out sarcastically. "Any other faults you'd care to address while we're at it?"

"Don't be like that," Hermione implored. "You know I'm only saying this out of concern." Which, in retrospect, she should have done in just about any other way. He'd always been defensive when confronted about perceived faults—unable or perhaps simply unwilling to reflect upon himself.

There was a pause on his end, as if he were trying to collect his thoughts. Then, instead of firing back, he grew very quiet, hollowly stating, "It's getting late."

Those words were chilling and leaving the conversation there felt wrong. Hadn't her mother always said never to go to bed angry? "Tom—" she started loudly.

But he cut her off. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," he said, quickly closing his watch.

Her mirror went back to normal, glinting her own reflection at her mockingly—a mixture of disappointment and anxiety swimming in her gaze—and the sudden silence practically left her ears ringing. It took her an embarrassingly long moment to realise what that silence meant; she'd let her guard down and was no doubt about to pay a price for it. With only seconds to spare, she managed to slip her pocket watch underneath her pillow and did her best to look as innocent as possible. The drapes of her four-poster were quickly ripped back, revealing none other than Lavender Brown.

Lavender's lips were pursed, her eyes darting around the previously enclosed space. The three other Gryffindor girls crowded behind her curiously, and they all seemed a touch disappointed when they found nothing out of order. Still, Lavender refused to let the opportunity go; frowning, she asked, "Who were you talking to?"

The girl's nosey demand irritated Hermione so completely that she felt the innocent look melting straight off her face, instinctively replaced by a glare. After ending her conversation with Tom on such a sour note, Lavender was honestly the last person she wanted to deal with. She could only hope that the annoying girl would go away quickly. "I was just practising a few spells," she lied, indicating her still lit wand. The challenging glare that was still tightening the corners of her eyes probably didn't help sell that idea very well, but there was little she could do about it now.

"I heard a boy's voice," Lavender insisted, and there were several murmurs of agreement behind her.

Without really meaning to do it, Hermione could feel her expression shifting to one of Tom's: a haughtily quirked brow and a mocking twist of the lips that aimed to make its opponents feel as small and misguided as possible. It wasn't an expression she could recall using before, but she couldn't deny how right it felt against such intrusive roommates. "Do you see a boy in here?" she asked, voice dripping with sarcasm and noticeable disdain—after all, if she was already borrowing Tom's looks, she might as well adopt his imperious tone as well.

Lavender looked taken aback by such unexpected venom, and rightly so as the usually quiet bookworm had never bothered to stand up to her tormentors before. Faltering, she tried to counter, "No, but—"

Hermione, who wanted to put the issue to rest as quickly as possible, did not let the girl finish. "I suppose I'm hiding him nefariously in the shadows then, am I?" she drawled sharply. It wasn't usually in her to so openly ridicule others, but this was a drastic situation. She had to discredit Lavender, to make everyone feel silly and mistaken, because any lingering curiosity about the night's events would pose a risk to Tom and his secrets. It was nerve wracking enough expecting Quirrell around every corner, she didn't wish to add fluff-headed girls looking to expose some sort of scandal to her list of concerns.

Kate and Fay, who weren't always on good terms with Lavender to begin with, looked chastened by Hermione's words and quickly broke off to the other side of the room. The remaining two Gryffindor girls, however, did not appear quite as convinced of her innocence.

"There's something strange going on with you, Granger," Lavender accused. "I heard you were found alone in a bathroom with a Slytherin boy," she added, smilingly nastily when Parvati gasped from behind her.

That was certainly the last rumour Hermione wished to hear. Had Harry or Ron mentioned the mysteriously vanishing Slytherin to other students prior to being sworn to secrecy about Tom? Or had the three of them discussed their clandestine adventures a little too loudly over breakfast one morning? It was so easy to forget that Hogwarts had ears everywhere, easy to grow complacent and assume that no one was listening in to private conversations. In light of all the other troubles facing her—Quirrell and his shadow, the Philosopher's Stone, the mystery of Riddle and his wand, not to mention keeping top marks in all her classes—she'd become dangerously lazy about protecting her time-traveler from notice.

"That was Halloween," she finally replied, "which, you will no doubt remember, was when that troll attacked me in the girls' bathroom. There was a Slytherin boy there," she admitted, because denying it at this point would only make Lavender more certain that she was lying about something. "He heard the commotion and came to see what was going on. There certainly wouldn't have been any time for whatever it is you think you're implying."

"Then where is it you're disappearing off to all the time?" Parvati asked, finally chipping in.

Emboldened by her friend's support, Lavender placed her hands on her hips and practically shrieked, "I think you're fraternising with the enemy!"

The enemy? Why was everyone so enamoured of that stupid House rivalry? What did it matter if her best friend was a Slytherin? And, more to the point, what right did people like Lavender and Parvati have to judge the company Hermione chose to keep? A swift fury flushed through her; she could forgive anything they'd said about herself—the petty teasing over her appearance and petulant resentment of her clever, bookish nature—but she could not, would not, forgive their implication that Tom was beneath them.

Distantly, it struck her that perhaps this was how Tom had felt about Andy Smythe, in which case perhaps she had been too hard on him; not that she condoned his violence, but she understood now why he had been so upset with her when she'd failed to understand him. This was the sort of anger that could not be denied, that did not wish to be subverted into lesser action. She would not hurt the bratty girls before her, but for once she found that she did not wish to back away from the confrontation.

"And I think you're a stuck up ninny who needs to learn how to mind her own business," she all but shouted. Her magic swirled around her, wordlessly pushing the two Gryffindors back until they'd stumbled far away from her bedside. Cheeks burning red, Hermione had to stop herself from doing anything more. A small thrill leapt down her spine at the wide eyes that stared at her from around the room—not so unlike the feeling she got when she knew the answer to a tricky question that no one else understood—but she knew she had to reel herself back in. She'd stood her ground, although she hadn't so much dissipated suspicion as just flatly told them to stop prying, but that was enough. With one last angry look, she snapped her drapes closed once more, hoping against hope that she'd not just made a terrible mistake.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1939_

Tom stared at the pocketwatch blankly, wrestling with the terrible desire to hurl it against the nearest wall. He wasn't stupid! Hadn't he been the one to identify the threat Quirrell posed? The one to realise that Hermione's Defense Professor was possessed by a powerful, sentient evil? Hadn't he been the one to insist on certain safety measures for her, because the idea of that familiar blackness anywhere near her made his chest tighten uncomfortably?

How dare she _think_ — How dare she _say_ — !

He took a deep breath, fingers clenched tightly around the metal casing of the watch, until he felt sure his knuckles would split straight through his skin like stones through wet parchment. Objectively, he knew that Hermione hadn't actually been criticising him, that she had only been expressing her own concern for his safety, but that didn't leave him feeling any less attacked. She had no right to accuse him of such tactical blindness, not when she was the one who'd taken unnecessary risks in the pursuit of information! Risks that, in the end, hadn't even paid off in any measurable way and had left her more vulnerable to her Professor than ever. Perhaps he was underestimating Quirrell and his darkness—lulled into a false sense of security by the distance between them and the unshakeable idea that, whatever they were planning, Tom could no doubt devise a better way of doing it—but at least he wasn't the one ambling around and openly inviting their enemies to take advantage of them!

He took another deep breath, forcing himself to calmly place his watch down upon his bed lest he do something unforgivably rash. Even as angry as he was in that moment, he could not risk losing any connection to Hermione over what ultimately amounted to no more than a small spat between them. It was hard to fight his temper back down, but he knew that there was no sense in being upset. Had those words been uttered by anyone else Tom would have made sure they paid for it, but Hermione was the one person he couldn't imagine seeking revenge upon—not only was he certain that she would prove a formidable opponent once provoked, but the very idea of raising his wand against her seemed as pointless as striking himself. They were a set, twined together, individual weaknesses balanced out by the other's strengths. If they could not present a united front—if they fell apart now—then they would be vulnerable to outside attack, capable of being pulled apart, separated. Which was unacceptable, obviously. In the three and a half years that they had known one another they had only truly been apart twice—once soon after they'd met, and then again after arriving at Hogwarts for the first time—and he had vowed never to do that again regardless of how volatile their relationship got.

Because really, and this was the truth of it as far as Tom was concerned, without him Hermione had no one. Well, to be fair, she did have Potter and Weasley, but two boys who could stare Death in the face and then assign blame to completely the wrong man weren't worth their keep. They couldn't protect her. Not that she necessarily needed protection—that was one of the many brilliant things about her—but the thought of her curiosity and temper, her sharp wit and ingenuity silenced forever left a cold ball of dread in the pit of Tom's stomach. Hermione was a diamond in the rough, a mirror to his own strengths, and he couldn't help but want her close by and unquestionably safe.

So there was really no sense in being angry over her accusations. Anger would only fester between them, fostering distance until Quirrell—or someone like him—could worm their fingers into that gap and pry the two of them apart. If anything, now was the time to strengthen their bond.

For the first time, Tom truly considered telling Hermione about himself, of demolishing those last few walls that he had erected between them. They had been placed there in an effort to keep himself safe, but she was undeniably a part of him now and those barriers didn't serve much purpose anymore beyond generating a lingering distrust. What was the worst that could happen? She had already tried and failed to find out who Tom Riddle was—aside from a few perfunctory facts about his schooling, it seemed that there was nothing for her to find. Her anger was a bit of a deterrent, though; she would be furious that he'd lied about his name for so long, and he couldn't even begrudge her that because he knew that he, himself would react poorly in her position. His truest worry, however, was that in her anger she would no doubt renew her research efforts and, motivated by spite, it was possible she would find something she'd previously overlooked.

He didn't have to tell her his name, though. She'd already narrowed him down to somewhere in a span of about thirty years, and he didn't think the incidentals of his life would help her identify a more specific time. The surnames of any classmates he might give her would no doubt still be familiar in her own time and not very helpful at all in pinning down his era. The Professors, too, were all long-tenured at Hogwarts, so what did it matter if he discussed his lessons more completely with Hermione? Perhaps he had been holding himself a bit too far aloof, paranoid that even the most insignificant of details would result in her returning to him with disappointing anecdotes of his failures in life or, even worse, a premature and unremarkable death.

He was tired of Lestrange being his only true confidant. Hadn't Tom fantasised about bringing Hermione into the fold, of being able to plan and plot with the benefit of her keen insight and driving energy? Of being able to share the burden of his scheming across two equal sets of shoulders? True, she was still a world apart from him, and he was certain that her golden heart would be shocked, perhaps even appalled, by his ultimate goal; somehow, she just didn't seem the type to throw her support behind aspirations of ministerial conquest and potential Dark Lordship. He could ease her into the idea though—slowly, over time—dress it up in some other sentiment, something that she'd like and feel drawn to, couldn't he?

He'd felt the distance between them—as if it had been a living, breathing thing, growing larger and more tumultuous by the day, not so very unlike the Void. She'd been slipping through his fingers in a way he couldn't quite explain, drifting further and further from him, across the waves of an uncharted ocean he did not know how to navigate. Her affection had never ceased, and yet there were suddenly parts of herself that she'd begun holding back from him, a distance that had never before existed. It had felt like, piece by piece, he'd been losing her; the process was undoubtedly slow and would have taken years to truly overcome them, but eventually they would have become fractured and estranged. If he gave her his secrets then perhaps she would spill her own in return, and the distance between them would shrink again until it was as if it had never existed in the first place. Given how tightly he'd always controlled himself around others, how determined he'd been to leave them with nothing of his true self, the idea of suddenly sharing almost everything with Hermione should have appalled him, but in truth he found himself strangely elated by the idea. She would be by his side more completely than ever before; true, it would not be the same as having her in his own time, but it was the next best alternative.

Tom reluctantly set those thoughts aside—there was other work to be done this night—and returned to the research he'd been engaged in before Hermione had contacted him. Though it was tedious and dull work, he'd been brushing up on some of the Pureblood families, paying particular attention to those he'd been introduced to that evening.

Dolohov, Yaxley, and Nott had been the most outspoken of the group. All of them were from relatively lesser families—Purebloods, but not held to the same esteem as lineages like the Blacks or the Lestranges. According to Andrus's letters, the Yaxleys were in financial straits: Yaxley Senior was apparently a bit too fond of the gambling tables and routinely lost more than he won. The Notts were engulfed in some sort of legal concern, the exact nature of which even Andrus hadn't seemed to know for sure—though he had speculated that they might be contesting the Will of a recently deceased relative who had tried to leave a substantial part of his estate to his mistress of-insultingly-questionable-origin. And then there were the Dolohovs, who were desperately trying to keep the world from knowing that three separate Squibs had all been born to them in a single generation, terrified that other Purebloods would think their bloodline had become dirty along the way and was now losing its magic. Despite these obvious defects, however, their names still carried enough weight to allow each family some heavy involvement in the Ministry; they were certainly well-connected enough to have gained Black's favour even though he came from an objectively more powerful family. The insipid trio of toadies were not the sort of company Tom would have chosen, personally, but he had to start somewhere—their shameful secrets made them vulnerable at least, easy to trap and sway without much further thought.

His true interest, of course, laid with Cleantha Selwyn—the girl who was possibly related to him. She was somewhat harder than the others to pin down, unfortunately. The Selwyns were an intensely private family, as it turned out, and even publications like Preserving The Pure only had the barest amount of information on them despite the fact that they were part of the illustrious Sacred Twenty-Eight. Their silence was suspicious, made him wonder if perhaps they were trying to keep secrets of a serpentine nature—if he spoke in Parseltongue to Cleantha would she be able to respond? It was too risky to try it though, not without somehow confirming his suspicions a bit further. He would have to speak to Andrus, see if the Lestranges knew anything useful about the Selwyns.

A part of Tom was undecided as to which outcome he truly wished for on that front. On the one hand, he'd never had blood relatives before and was curious why everyone seemed to hold the phenomenon in such high regard. On the other hand, if Cleantha turned out to be a sibling or a cousin, it meant that he was not the sole Heir of Slytherin, and he was quite sure he didn't like that diminishing importance. However, either way it brought him closer to Slytherin himself, because if the Selwyns were not related to Tom then at least that crossed one of the Marvolos off his list, leaving him with only two other possibilities to explore. He would find his relatives eventually—he was sure of it—and, one way or another, Cleantha could prove to be instrumental in that quest.

When Tom finally went to sleep that night, he dreamt of snakes and cold, red eyes. Within the dream itself those visions comforted him, and yet upon awakening he could not displace the feeling of that familiar, choking darkness which seemed to now haunt his every hour. He was hardly surprised that his mind chose to linger upon the shadowy specter, seeing as it was one of his chief concerns these days, but he did resent that it apparently couldn't keep itself confined to the future, where it belonged.

Breakfast was a curious affair that morning. Never one to linger in bed, Tom was one of the first students to enter the Great Hall. He'd barely even touched his porridge before Andrus was sliding into the seat beside him.

"You really don't hold back, do you?" Lestrange asked with a grimace and a put upon sigh.

He wanted to laugh at that—as if sliding a few cups across a table was great magic! What would they think to see his wandless fire, or to witness what he and Hermione could do together? It was pathetic, really, how easily these Purebloods were taken by surprise. "From that sort of reaction," he replied, turning disinterestedly back to his breakfast, "I can only surmise that you couldn't even begin to imagine how much I do hold myself back."

Andrus made a valiant effort not to flinch at that admission—it was amusing how frightened he could appear over such a petty little thing. "You never mentioned that you could do wandless magic," he accused.

Tom raised a brow and shrugged. "I suppose I didn't really think it worth mentioning, all things considered." After all, Hermione could do wandless magic as well. Not to mention that when they'd first met, Dumbledore had seemed to imply it was a soft skill—something anyone could learn to do—and that Tom was only unique because he'd managed to learn a bit of wandless magic so young.

"This is big, Riddle," Lestrange cut through his musings. "Are you really so arrogant that you don't get that?"

Still not seeing what all the fuss was about, Tom snapped, "What would you have had me do, Andrus? Not being able to tell anyone I'm a Parselmouth limited my options. I've only got a finite amount of time left to gain some traction and I needed the First Years' attention."

"Well, you certainly got it," the older boy laughed humorlessly. "I thought you were going to breadcrumb our 'illegitimate Lestrange' plan—we spent weeks devising that."

For some reason, Tom suddenly felt as if they were talking about two entirely different events. Why did Andrus assume he'd abandoned all their hard work? "I did stick to the plan," he answered simply.

Lestrange was puzzled by that. "It didn't work?"

"The whole affair went surprisingly well, actually," Tom shrugged once more. "Alphard was only too happy to jump to conclusions."

Andrus floundered, giving him a hopelessly confused look. "Then why—?"

"What's with you?" Tom demanded, tired of dancing around whatever was bothering the young aristocrat. "You're acting like I blew my cover."

"The Common Room is boiling over with rumours about what happened," Lestrange replied, fingers twitching agitatedly. "If anyone did suspect you of being my bastard half-brother, they won't believe it for very long. There are only a handful of wizards that can perform controlled, wandless magic."

His concern finally started to make sense. "And the Lestranges aren't among them," Tom hazarded a guess.

"Even the Blacks aren't among them," Andrus replied lowly. Then darting a glance to the High Table where the staff dined, added, "But Dumbledore is."

"Ah," Tom breathed, processing the information. It would be a rather inconvenient conclusion for the whole of Slytherin House to suspect him of being related to the Head of Gryffindor. Their Transfiguration Professor was held in high esteem and there was no denying that he was a powerful wizard, but House rivalries were sacred and ran deep at Hogwarts. The only thing equally as bad as Tom's own House calling him a Mudblood would be some misguided notion that he was only a Gryffindor pretending to be a Slytherin. Their disdain would know no bounds and all his hard work would come to naught. Still, just because he and Dumbledore shared a skill didn't mean that their being related was any sort of logical conclusion. "Dumbledore is noticeably hesitant about me," he argued slowly, thinking carefully, "even Alphard managed to put that much together."

"Don't underestimate the cleverness of our House, Riddle," his companion cautioned, eerily echoing Hermione's own warnings. "If properly motivated, the Purebloods are interconnected enough to work in tandem, and together they could land upon the truth of what you are much sooner than you want them to."

Even if he were to generously overestimate the intellectual capabilities of his Housemates, Tom still didn't think they had all the right information to figure out the reality of him. Lestrange was simply being overcautious. "You can see the path clearly only because you already know the truth, Andrus," Tom explained quietly. "Without that final piece, without knowing that I am a Speaker they have no reason to land upon Slytherin as a legitimate consideration. He lived over a thousand years ago, as far as anyone other than you or I are aware, it seems possible that he wouldn't even have any surviving descendents. Our plan hasn't changed so much as you think—if at all."

Ignoring that last sentence, Lestrange grimaced and cautiously pointed out, "It's not as common these days, but there have been claims to Slytherin's lineage made by a number of families, you know."

"The Selwyns?" Tom questioned immediately, finally voicing the thought he'd been silently pursuing since the night before.

Andrus cocked his head at that, almost visibly tallying everything he knew about the mysterious family. "Not that I'm aware," he replied after several long moments, "but then they do keep to themselves."

Tom felt like growling in frustration. Not that he didn't respect a healthy sense of solitude—particularly since most Pureblood families seemed to lack it entirely—but the Selwyn's tendency toward isolation was damned inconvenient. He narrowed his eyes, viciously jabbing at his breakfast as he told his companion, "I don't like Miss Selwyn presenting such a mystery to me, Andrus."

Lestrange bit out a helpless laugh, which he quickly muffled under the force of Tom's resulting glare. "Look, most of the Pureblood families are connected in some way," he explained, apparently not knowing how else to diffuse the younger boy's temper. "Go back far enough, and you'd probably discover that you and I actually are related, most likely distant cousins. That's the way it works in our families. So if you suspect that you and Selwyn share a common bloodline then you're almost certainly right," he soothed; then, taking a fortifying breath, continued, "but to suggest that her family might be the missing link between you and your own ancestry is a bit of a leap."

Thinking of his clandestine search for a man named Marvolo, Tom could only reply, "I have my reasons."

Lestrange raised a brow at that. "I don't suppose you'd like to share them?" he asked dryly.

"Don't suppose I would," Tom replied, flashing his companion a twisted smile. There was no reason to hold out really, but he felt as if he'd been hemorrhaging information lately—there was hardly anything about him that Andrus did not know, and very soon Hermione would be joining that selective club in some fashion. It was uncomfortable being so openly honest, and it made Tom want to hold on to whatever he could, no matter how petty.

"Fine, keep your secrets," Lestrange huffed, though there was no real strength behind his words. "Just remember that I'm only as useful as you let me be."

This was more familiar footing between them, their usual mocking and disaffected back and forth. Allowing his smile to bloom more fully, Tom crooned, "You're doing a marvelous job, Andrus, don't fret."

Lestrange rolled his eyes and stood to join his fellow Second Years. Half turned away, he quietly drawled, "You know, I actually think I regret introducing myself to you," but his words were empty of any true sentiment and they both knew it.

"And yet you stay because you know it'll pay off for you in the long-run," Tom reminded him lightly, if somewhat pointedly.

"Somehow, banking on your undisclosed vision of the future isn't too much of a comfort," Andrus replied with a snort. He paused then, visibly hesitating before he delivered a final caution, "Watch your back today—you might actually be a target of interest now," and with that, he was gone.

Up to that point the Slytherins had largely left Tom alone. They'd been disdainful of him and his apparent lack of heritage, but not truly interested enough to spare him any attention—he'd been considered beneath their notice, unworthy of even the effort it might have taken them to bully him. Lestrange seemed convinced that last night had changed that, either because Black's willing interactions with Tom had ruffled some feather or because Tom had finally proven that he was someone to be wary of.

Regardless of the reason, there were gazes surreptitiously trained in his direction now, watching him from the corners of curious and calculating eyes. It was a bit unnerving, to be honest—Tom was used to occupying a blind-spot, coming and going as he pleased because he knew no one was watching. That was no longer true, and yet he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry about it; though it would make concealing some of his more unusual talents a bit harder, he ultimately needed all the attention that Slytherin House could spare him if he was to have any chance of taking them over. He could only hope that no one was enterprising enough to try bullying him because, for once, Tom wasn't certain how he'd react; he had a horrible feeling that instincts sharpened from years of enduring Wool's cutthroat lawlessness would not be denied. The last thing he needed right now was for his temper to draw the eyes of authority in his direction—his Professors were blind to the truth of his nature and he was determined to keep it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, Tom's basically just poking the hornets nest to see what will come spilling out.
> 
> (My formatting didn't carry over for some reason. Sorry for the distinct lack of italics; although that might be a good thing since I abuse them so much.)
> 
> As always, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, particularly to anon, woofwolf (musicalheartstrings), plottinghere, FreyaFallen, Karla, and Angrypixels for commenting! (I'm now two chapters behind on responding to comments, but I promise I will catch up soon!)
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Story cross-posted at Fanfiction.net.


	26. He Is Collecting

Chapter Twenty-Six: He Is Collecting

_Hogwarts, 1991_

The next morning was bitterly cold, the fire having burnt low and not likely to be stoked up again until after lessons had started. Hermione's bed was warm and inviting, a cosy cocoon that begged her to roll over and simply go back to sleep, but she knew she couldn't. Classes resumed today, and if she was being perfectly honest Hermione wished to be up and dressed before any of the other girls—after her outburst the night before she wasn't keen on facing them. Guilt was gnawing at her stomach, twisting it into knots. She shouldn't have lost her temper; though it had felt good to finally snap back at the overbearing Lavender Brown, experience had taught her that it wouldn't be long before the girl in question returned fire. Wanting to avoid that confrontation for as long as possible, Hermione pulled herself out of bed. The floor was like ice against her bare feet, prompting her to wash and dress in record time. She was out of the dorm before any of the other girls even stirred.

Breakfast, however, did nothing to improve her mood. Plagued by a jittery nervousness, she found that she could hardly stomach even the thought of food. Lavender and Parvati, when they finally arrive in the Great Hall, sat as far from Hermione as was possible, studiously avoiding her gaze as if they feared being attacked should they dare to so much as look at her. Kate and Fay weren't much better, though they did offer her wobbly, unsure smiles every time they caught her glancing in their direction.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked, sharp eyes watching the way she mangled her toast but never ate it.

She had barely even noticed Ron and Harry sit down and, taken by surprise, all she managed to blurt out was a defensive sounding, "What?"

"It's just…" Harry sighed, searching for the right words. He took a moment to distract himself, scraping her shredded toast onto his own plate and handing her a fresh slice, but eventually continued, "You keep darting worried glances over at Lavender and Parvati, and neither of them will even look at you. Did something happen last night?"

One day, she would stop being so surprised by the small boy's unerringly perceptive observations, but for now she still found it jarring and a touch eerie how quickly he could bleed out from impish little Harry into this _knowing_ , _seeing_ young man. It was still unclear whether he did it on purpose, but she rather suspected that he liked to keep people guessing, liked it when others underestimated him.

She bit her lip and ruthlessly suppressed the urge to look down the length of the table again, quietly confessing, "I may have done something rash." Ron—who had been busy shoveling eggs into his mouth this whole time—finally looked up from his breakfast, disbelief stamped all over his features. And he wasn't the only one; Harry, too, looked downright shocked that clever, meticulous Hermione was even capable of rash action. Feeling a bit panicked under the twin forces of their incredulity, she let the story spill out in a rush, "Lavender overheard me talking to Tom last night. I don't think she actually managed to make out any of the conversation, but she insisted that she heard a boy's voice. And, well…" She took a deep albeit quick breath, voice straining high and tight as she concluded, "Well, I panicked. She had all the other girls standing around her, accusing me of being a traitor or some such rubbish, and I didn't want any of them getting suspicious about Tom so I pushed them."

"You pushed them?" Ron echoed blankly.

"A little," she nodded morosely, fingers drumming agitatedly against the rim of her plate. "Only Parvati and Lavender," she rushed to add. "No one got hurt, I swear! I just wanted them to leave me alone for once."

"For once?" Harry's green eyes, always so striking even under the most mundane circumstances, seemed to peer straight through her now in a fashion uncannily similar to Snape's glittering gaze. "Have they been bothering you?"

Hermione couldn't stop the long-suffering sigh that burst from her lips. "Everyone always thinks little girls are sweet and kindhearted, but I've never thought so. Get a group of them together and they'll inevitably find someone to pick on—I've always been an easy target, I suppose," she replied quietly, restless hand moving to tangle with the uncontrollable, riotous mass of her hair.

Harry's fingers darted out, quick and certain, catching her hand before it could bury itself in the unstyled frizz. She dared a fleeting glance at him, terrified at the thought of finding pity swimming in those emerald eyes, but found only understanding reflected back at her. He'd spoken of his relatives sparingly and with great reluctance, episodically revealing that they were deeply uncharitable people who did not particularly like him; it was strange to think that, scrawny as he was, he'd likely endured his own share of bullying prior to Hogwarts.

Ron, meanwhile, was fixing a dark look down to the other end of the table. His ears were flushing a brilliant crimson and his face was nothing short of _affronted_ on her behalf. There was something curiously _brotherly_ about his reaction, and she had a sneaking suspicion that the Twins were going to be given some quiet suggestions about who to focus their next few pranks on. "You should have said something, Hermione," he told her hotly, glaring at the two girls in question. "Don't keep that sort of thing to yourself!"

"I didn't want to cause any trouble," she replied simply. After the incident with Tom and Andy Smythe all those years ago, it had just seemed easier, _less dangerous_ to keep her problems private.

"We complain up and down about Malfoy and his goons," Harry pointed out evenly. "How's this any different? You're supposed to confide in us, even if it's just to complain about how obnoxious they are."

"You were worried about Davies getting upset, weren't you?" Ron guessed, hitting the nail on the head.

"There's no need to get testy," Hermione grumbled at the two of them. As flattering as it was to watch the pair jump to her defence, these situations always made her uncomfortable—she couldn't help but remember the terrified shrieking of a young boy facing a power he could never defend himself from, and the chilling sight of blankly black eyes flashing with the heat of betrayal. She didn't like to remember Tom that way—callous and vicious and terrifying—and had since then, to varying degrees of success, gone well out of her way not to provide him with any temptation to fall back on old habits. "I'm used to this sort of thing, you know."

Ron scowled at that, angrily pushing his eggs around his plate now, too worked up to eat anymore. "That doesn't make it right," he snapped, looking up after a long moment. "D'you want us to talk to them?"

"What would you even say?" she snorted, unable to picture that particular confrontation; as far as she was aware, Harry and Ron had rarely ever so much as exchanged pleasantries with the other First Year girls in Gryffindor.

"Dunno," the redhead shrugged, "but it couldn't hurt."

"All I want is for them to forget the mysterious Slytherin boy they've somehow heard rumours about," Hermione confided and then, unable to help herself, added, "and to not go tattling to Professor McGonagall." Her palms grew cold and sweaty at the very thought, heart thumping uncomfortably in her throat. The tide of her anxiety rose, sharp and uncontrollable, and she squeaked, "What if she gives me detention—I've never been in real trouble before!"

"Relax," Harry laughed, bumping shoulders with her. "They haven't got any proof, have they? It would be your word against theirs." He gave her an easy, unconcerned smiled. "And I know McGonagall doesn't play favourites, but she clearly has a soft spot for you—I mean, how else do you explain us not getting into any trouble over that whole troll incident? She'd probably be a lot more upset that the other girls were ganging up on you than that you tried to defend yourself." It was astounding how much Harry trusted simple good fortune to see him through life; he was not an especially lucky boy by anyone's measure, excepting two botched assassination attempts, and yet he _believed_ in luck wholeheartedly. "Anyway, it's double Defense this morning. We don't even have Transfiguration today; by the time they could mention something to Professor McGonagall they'll probably be too embarrassed to bring it up."

Ron blanched at the mention of Defense, biting out a quiet, "Bloody hell!"

"What?" Hermione asked confusedly, knowing it was unlikely that he'd suddenly decided to start taking seriously the threat Quirrell posed.

The redhead rummaged desperately around his schoolbag for a moment, shunting books aside as he searched for something, but after several long seconds he appeared to come up empty. "I forgot my essay back at the Tower," he confirmed bitterly.

Harry checked his tatty, battered-looking watch and commented, "If we leave for it now, we could probably still make it to Defense on time."

They were well out of the Hall and racing toward the Tower before anyone spoke again. Ron, clearly feeling miffed about the whole situation, burst out, "What kind of maniac assigns an essay just before the holidays and then _another_ one during? Not even Snape was that heartless!"

Hermione smothered a laugh and rolled her eyes. With Ron in one of his moods, there was simply no sense in pointing out that their Defense lessons were comprised of little else _other_ than writing assignments; her words would only fall on deaf ears. Instead, she tartly countered, "And yet you both insist that Quirrell is as harmless as a kitten."

"Dangerous and inconvenient are two different things, Hermione," Harry replied lightly. "Even if he was of a mind to cause harm, he'd probably be trembling too hard to actually aim his wand properly."

She raised a brow, unimpressed with that logic. "And if the trembling is just an act?"

"Well, then obviously," he conceded while their redheaded companion quickly disappeared through the portrait hole. "But he hasn't done anything suspicious."

"Not around you," she admitted, frustration colouring her words dark and a bit snappish, "but I'm telling you, he threatened me."

Harry rocked nervously on his feet for a moment, looking uncomfortable with whatever he was about to say, but eventually plowed ahead regardless, murmuring, "I don't doubt that you felt threatened, but—" Ron had since rejoined them, scroll clutched triumphantly in hand as they began scurrying once more, and Harry used his reappearance as an excuse to trail off.

However, Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that she knew what the other boy had been about to suggest and she couldn't leave that thought alone. "What?" she prompted him in a stern voice that brooked no refusals.

Ron glanced between the two of them, a bit unsure of what he'd just walked into. Harry, for his part, sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck before gently continuing, "Well, you do tend to overreact where the Professors are concerned."

" _What?_ " she snapped, affronted. A nearby group of Ravenclaws tensed and quickly scuttled passed them at the shrill sound of her anger.

And for all that he wasn't quite certain what he had missed while retrieving his homework, Ron jumped into the fray now to defend his green-eyed companion. "You just panicked a few minutes ago over the thought of Professor McGonagall assigning you detention," he pointed out carefully. She glared at him, but he only gave her a sheepish sort of smile and asked, "Is it possible that you were so frightened about the idea of Davies being caught, of the two of you getting into trouble, that you misunderstood Quirrell?"

She took a deep breath and gave the question due consideration. Not that she had to, of course; she _knew_ the truth, but so far the truth hadn't gotten her anywhere. After a lengthy moment wherein she tried to see the situation as her two Gryffindors might have, she finally replied, "The first time, maybe—but definitely not the second or the third time."

Harry stopped, suddenly rooted to the spot. " _Second_ or _third_?" he asked stonily. "When were you going to tell us about that?"

"Davies is going to kill us," the redhead moaned loudly, attracting curious looks from a few passersby. "We were meant to be protecting you."

"This is why we all asked you not to go off on your own," Harry told her softly. Then, looking somewhere between disappointed and distressed, asked, "Did he hurt you?"

Hermione quickly got all of them moving again, not wishing to dawdle when it was Quirrell's class they were in danger of being late for. It was her turn to scratch at the back of her neck now—suddenly aware that telling them about her First Year tormentors _and_ Quirrell on the same morning was probably an overload, that she should have spread the information a little apart—but she gave them both a shy, relieved look before asking, "You believe me?"

Harry and Ron both frowned at that. "Are you lying?"

"No! It's just… you didn't before," she rushed to explain. "At all."

The two boys were looking increasingly uncomfortable about their lapse in judgement, and perhaps the slightest bit afraid now that she'd been left to her own devices for so long.

"Three times is a bit much not to take you on your word," Harry replied. His tone was apologetic, just this side of self-recriminating, but when he spoke again there was a note of stubbornness threading his voice. "I'm not saying I agree that he's the one after the Philosopher's Stone, but if you say he's been threatening you then I believe you. To be clear, though, Snape is still a greasy, suspicious git."

She laughed at his assertion, a surprisingly carefree sound considering what they were discussing, and blithely returned, "The two of you couldn't have made that more clear even if you'd scrawled it across the castle in giant, Hagrid-sized letters." She couldn't even begrudge the boys their opinion either, because she didn't necessarily disagree. Snape was a petty, vindictive man who derided great joy from making his brightest students feel worthless. It wouldn't take too much of a jump to believe that he was evil on top of all that. In fact, out of all their professors he seemed the most obvious candidate for any wrongdoing—if not for quiet, unobtrusive, _incredibly possessed_ Quirrell, that is.

Ron, who had briefly smiled at the idea of Hagrid-scale graffiti, sobered quickly and asked, "So what happened?"

Hermione sighed, hating the idea of having to explain everything a second time. Then again, Tom had taken the news surprisingly well, and there was no reason to think that the two Gryffindors would react any _worse_ than a temperamental Slytherin. "I think," she began, replaying the memory for herself, "when Quirrell found Tom and I that first time it was honestly just coincidence—but even without ever getting a good look at Tom, Quirrell seemed to realise that he wasn't one of his students. And, since Defense is compulsory for First Years—"

"He got suspicious," Harry realised.

She nodded. "He recognised Tom's wand, or at least thought he did, and I assumed if I could figure out who he thought Tom was we might understand him a little better."

"So you went looking for the wand," Ron guessed, because even though they'd really only been friends for a few short months, he still knew her well enough to realise that researching was her default reaction to just about everything. "Did you find it?"

"The exact same day, in fact." Not that it had done her any good. Discovering Tom M. Riddle had only deepened the mystery more, adding questions while providing no answers in turn. "But then Quirrell found me, and he was _different_." Even now, she shuddered at the memory of that _thing_ that had cornered her in the Hall of Academic Excellence. "He didn't stutter or shake; he was calm, quiet. Charming, almost, in a completely unsettling way, somehow compelling and repulsive all at once." The boys both looked as if they were having a hard time picturing that; then again, if she hadn't seen Quirrell's act firsthand, she had a feeling she would've had a hard time imagining it too. The very idea of smoothness was just too deeply uncharacteristic of their bumbling, cowardly Defense Professor.

Harry recovered from his confusion first, prompting her to continue. "And he threatened you?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not in so many words; mostly he just seemed interested in finding a way to contact Tom." She thought back to the disconcerting Darkness that had allowed the mask of Quirrell to slip off in front of her, to the slick way it had moved and the soft voice it had spoken with. Unsettled anew, she continued, "But even if he never said anything inappropriate to me there was a malice in him, something _twisted_ and _wrong_. He didn't touch me, didn't even stand any closer than usual, but..." she trailed off, struggling to find the right words to describe how she'd felt in that moment—small and helpless and so keenly _alone_. "I could imagine the violence without him having to put it into words," she concluded shakily, "and somehow the fact that he _wasn't_ cruel was all the more terrible."

"That doesn't sound like Quirrell at all."

"I agree." An understatement, but what else could she say? Whatever had spoken to her that afternoon _hadn't_ been Quirrell. "Tom and I think he's being possessed, but we don't know who by." She saw the two boys exchanging looks from the corner of her eye, and rushed to add, "And before you say it, that doesn't sound like Snape, either." Professor Snape did have an insidious edge to him, and while he was habitually soft spoken there was nothing about him that could be considered charming. There hadn't been a single hint of his sneering disdain within the disquieting monster that had faced her.

Harry visibly struggled for a moment to set aside his favourite theory for any strange goingson. "So if that was the second time Quirrell-or-whoever threatened you," he asked slowly, getting back on track, "then when was the third?"

"He sent me a Christmas present of sorts," she shrugged, still feeling strangely guilty whenever she thought about _Curses And Counter-Curses_ for some reason. Probably because she knew it wasn't entirely appropriate for her to have it, but that sentiment hadn't stopped her from reading the book or its annotations.

Ron's eyes lit up and he guessed, "That box you couldn't open!"

"No." Hermione frowned, disgruntled to even so much as think of the pretty puzzle she still hadn't been able to figure out—it was just as infuriatingly unsolvable at Hogwarts as it had been in London. "I really don't know who sent that, and the more I think about it the more I suspect it came to me by mistake." Ron looked dubious at that, but didn't interrupt. "What Quirrell gave me was more or less a bribe—he's still trying to get in contact with Tom, you see. I don't know what for, but he's insistent and fast losing his patience. I'm worried he'll do something drastic if we put him off for much longer."

"So what are we going to do?" Harry asked, businesslike. It never even occurred to him that this wasn't his fight, that he didn't have to share this burden if he didn't want to; his loyalty to his friends was instinctive and ran shockingly deep. She didn't think she'd ever been more fond of him and his stubborn nature than she was in that moment.

"Tom's written a letter," she explained, nervously biting her lip as she darted a glance around the corridor. Thankfully, no one seemed to be paying the First Years any mind, too busy rushing to their own classes. "I doubt it will satisfy Quirrell for very long, but it seemed like the safest way to hold him off."

"What did he send you?" Ron asked suddenly. At her blankly confused look, he clarified, "Quirrell's bribe, what was it?"

"A book, unsurprisingly," she replied, shrugging carelessly. "It's not rare or valuable or anything—in fact, there was even a whole display of them at Flourish & Blotts over the summer—but it is an older copy and has been annotated by… someone." A vindictive genius who wrote in spidery, elegant, _precise_ cursive. "Not Quirrell, because the handwriting doesn't match—"

"You read it?" Ron burst out, staring at her in horror. "Are you _mad_? It could have been cursed or enchanted!" At Harry's shocked look, he explained, "Quirrell could have imbued the pages with compulsions to make you do something against your will, or cursed it to erase your memory or speak in riddles for the rest of your life. Magic books can very dangerous; you have to be more careful!"

"I didn't know," she replied quietly, trying to sound innocent and apologetic. But she had known—it had been one of her first thoughts, in fact—only she'd discounted the theory. Whatever was possessing their Defense Professor didn't want suspicious eyes turning in its direction, and wasn't likely to unleash any mayhem unless it had no other recourse. Perhaps accepting the book had been reckless on her part, but she firmly believed in the saying, 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained,' and she was in desperate need of some insight into the workings of their shadowy adversary. "Nothing's happened, in any case. What do you think I should do?"

Harry looked a little suspicious at her demure defense, but chose not to pry. Instead, he asked, "Does Davies know about any of this?"

"I told him over the holidays," Hermione nodded. Patting her pocket, she continued, "That's when we thought up the letter."

"Bet he blew his top," Ron snorted uncharitably.

Sometimes she suspected that the redhead enjoyed picking arguments, but she refused to take this particular bait. "He was surprisingly calm about the whole ordeal," she said quietly. "I know he's angry—for a lot of reasons—but he's not bringing it up. I don't know whether to count that as a blessing or not." Because if there was only one thing that she had learned about Tom, it was that he never truly let go of anything. He was fantastic at prioritising based upon the needs of the situation, but eventually all his grievances came back to the fore. She could only hope that he would decide he'd forgiven her somewhere in the interim.

"You should talk to a Professor, Hermione," Harry interrupted her thoughts. It was uncharacteristic advice from him—he never seemed particularly interested in trusting adults if he could help it—but it seemed that his nerves had finally overridden instinct. "Someone needs to know what's going on."

"How can I?" she returned seriously. "Technically, Quirrell hasn't done anything wrong—not anything we know about or could prove, anyway." She could only imagine the scorn she might face for 'spreading nasty rumours' about sweet, befuddled Professor Quirrell. The dark shadow that infected him would probably laugh its incorporeal arse off. Not to mention that those sort of claims would put her under a lot scrutiny that she didn't need. "Besides, I can't risk bringing anyone else's attention toward Tom. Could you imagine what would happen if the Ministry caught wind of a time-traveling twelve year old?"

Harry heaved a great sigh. "So we're stuck with Quirrell."

"Or whatever is controlling him," Ron chipped in glumly. "I don't like this."

"Nor do I," she agreed, "but we haven't really got a choice right now." Not without proof, not without _damning_ evidence. If it weren't for the fact that it was twisting her stomach into knots, she could almost admire how neatly Quirrell's spectre had backed them all into a corner.

"This is why Davies wants to take over our Defense lessons, isn't it?" Harry realised slowly, just as they rounded the last corner toward the classroom in question.

Hermione nodded, although it was unnecessary—for once, it seemed that they were all finally on the same page about the danger facing them. "We're pretty convinced that Quirrell's teaching poorly on purpose, so that no one would be able to stand against him most likely. Tom's own lessons are very different and he's top of his class—"

"No wonder you two get along," Ron muttered, rolling his eyes.

"—so studying with him will help," she concluded, blithely ignoring the interruption.

The three of them skidded through the classroom door and took their seats with only seconds to spare. For the first time that she could remember, Hermione wasn't looking forward to class at all; even through all the years of systematic bullying, she'd never once lost her joy in the face of acquiring knowledge. She dispassionately handed in her homework—slipping Tom's note into the pile as she passed it forward with the rest—and reflected that there was nothing to be learned in Quirrell's classroom, no truth to be taken from the twitchy, nervous act that he put on for the rest of the school.

Well, that wasn't entirely true, she reflected. His lessons were still complete rubbish, but they did give her the opportunity to study him without seeming suspicious. Quirrell was excellent at hiding whatever was inside him; had she not already known what to look for, she probably never would have noticed. The other personality was subtle in the way it looked out through the Professor's eyes, peering at their assignments during quiet moments when its host was busy grading papers. It would quirk a brow and huff out a silent laugh at the wrong answers they had dutifully committed to memory—mocking, scornful, and cruelly amused despite likely being one of the chief contributors to all that misinformation.

The spectre suddenly raised Quirrell's head, as if aware of her uncharitable scrutiny, its haunting, knowing eyes searching the classroom. Hermione quickly lowered her attention back to her desk, and from the corner of her eye noticed Ron and Harry doing the same. She wasn't surprised by their newfound interest, but she wondered what they perceived of him, how much of the toxic shadow they were able to differentiate from Professor Quirrell. Did he seem even half as dangerous to them as he did to her and Tom?

The class continued, dragging by at a depressingly sluggish pace. Quirrell's shadow had to notice the three Gryffindors' enduring inspections, but it never called them out on it. If it was prone to rash confrontation, it did not indulge in the impulse now, content to let the trio work themselves up into a suspicious misery. And it was miserable—having so many questions and no answers; being so close to something so basely _wrong_ and not being able to say anything about it. By the time Quirrell was passing back graded scrolls at the end of the lesson, Hermione felt wound tight and Harry appeared to be fighting off a headache. Even Ron, who wasn't particularly observant most of the time, later said that there was definitely something fishy going on.

Hermione's natural impulse was to remove herself from the danger as quickly as possible but—as she stared down at the new, sealed missive the Defense Professor had hidden within her returned scroll—she conceded that she was stuck in the thick of it for the time being. Maybe, once they had a better idea of what Quirrell and his darkness thought they wanted from Tom, it would be easier to avoid and/or foil them.

Maybe.

But the sinking feeling in her gut warned her not to hang any hopes on that simple desire.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1939_

Tom left breakfast early that morning, content to let the other Slytherin First Years stew amongst the rumours for a little while longer. Andrus had been correct in that Tom had no way of controlling what shape those whispered words might take, but he didn't _need_ to really. In the end, all that matter was that he'd finally gained the Slytherins' attention. So long as Alphard Black—the would-be king of the First Years, and the most easily directed variable thanks to Tom's influence over Black's beloved cousin—remained interested and open to his presence, then the plan was a success. The deeper he managed to get inside the little aristocrat's social circle, the more room Tom would have to slowly begin seizing control. Black's closest confidants would be a snap, thanks to the information Andrus had supplied him with. It would take him time, and of course there were outliers who didn't exactly fit within Black's circle, but if all went well then by the end of the term no one would even so much as _think_ about sneering at Tom's presence anymore.

Perhaps not this year, but sometime soon Tom vowed that all those little spoiled brats that had turned up their noses would eventually _beg_ to know him.

He absently made his way into the dungeons. First lesson that day was Double Potions with the Hufflepuffs. He found that even though there was little magic to this particular art, he quite enjoyed Potions; he didn't even mind that no one dared to sit with him, preferring to work alone in the first place. Of course, had Hermione been there it would have been an entirely different story.

He was still a bit angry that she'd dared to call him shortsighted—as if she had _any_ idea how far his sight truly spread—but he would swallow that anger in an instant for the opportunity to have her at his side. It was cruel that the only person who really understood him, who was his friend and equal in every respect that mattered, was trapped fifty-two years apart from him. Last night, he'd indulged in the brief fantasy of her sitting amid his peers, ruling those simple creatures as easily as he knew she could, but that dream filled him with a hollow ache and made him wonder why he was torturing himself. With any other desire he would have plotted, calculated, ruthlessly pursued, unleashed any trick in his repertoire to satisfy the avaricious little orphan that screamed across the planes of his thoughts—but no matter how badly he wanted Hermione with him, his repeated failures to understand the nature of his traveling left him baffled and unsure of himself. The idea that he would have to make do with what he was given was simply repugnant, but so far he'd found no other avenues down which he might be able to satisfy his growing desire to keep her close.

Lost within his own thoughts, Tom barely noticed when Slughorn began the lesson. At the First Year level, Potions was little more than following simple recipes and rarely required his full attention. In other subjects he found that lack of connection dull and frustrating, but for some reason Potions was soothing in its quiet monotony. Having no partner to divert his focus, he rarely spoke during these lessons, save to answer Slughorn's jovial yammering. Today, however, was different.

Today, an auburn-haired, cold-eyed witch had set up camp at the workbench beside his own. She was just as striking in the light of day as she had been in the dim fires of the Great Hall last night—her evocative colouring suggestive of no less than hot blood spilled upon bitter ice. A part of him still held out hope that—despite Andrus's warnings and the great differences in their appearance—they were in some way related, that this amusingly aloof creature before him was the missing link he needed to connect himself to Salazar Slytherin. However, if Cleantha Selwyn suspected anything of the sort herself, she kept those thoughts buried deep where they could not be observed. Regardless, her interest in Tom from last night had clearly carried over into the morning, and she seemed particularly eager to strengthen that tentative tie. As soon as the Professor stopped lecturing and left them to their brewing, she leaned in close to him. Offering a conspirator's smile that should have looked at odds with her usually blank expression but somehow didn't, she quietly said, "Where were you at breakfast? I wanted you to meet my friend—"

Selwyn's partner leaned back to get a better look at Tom and primly introduced herself, "Hestia Dagworth-Granger."

"She's also a Slytherin First Year," Selwyn chipped in. It was hardly necessary information, seeing as the two girls had rarely been sighted outside of each other's company since the Sorting Ceremony, but Tom held his tongue.

The other girl's name immediately caught his attention however, and he couldn't stop himself from pondering aloud, "Granger?" He studied her, scrutinising somewhat harder than was strictly polite, but he was too busy looking for traces of Hermione in her to really care. Hestia shared Hermione's colouring, but his Gryffindor was hardly exotic in that regard. The creature before him was petite, her features delicate and fae: like Selwyn, she possessed a pretty facade to hide the perceptive mind lurking within the depths of her eyes. She lacked that wild spark though—the riotous curls, the fiery temper, the desperate thirst for knowledge—that made Hermione less like a girl and more like a force of nature. It was possible that the two were related in some capacity, but equally possible that they were not; it was no stretch of the imagination to picture other Grangers out in the wide expanse of time and space. Without further evidence, he simply could not pass judgement.

The girl bristled, cutting into his thoughts with a sharp, " _Dagworth_ -Granger. You're hardly in a position to be throwing stones, Riddle."

Tom backtracked quickly, surprised that such an innocent question had struck a nerve. He should have been more careful, he realised belatedly; the families outside the Sacred Twenty-Eight had to fight a lot harder in order to justify calling themselves Purebloods. It seemed that the Dagworth-Grangers were struggling against the perception that they were only Half-Bloods and were very touchy about it. "You misunderstand me, Hestia. May I call you Hestia?" he asked, doing his best to sound contrite and soothing. At her begrudging nod, he continued, "I'm not making any accusations—I happen to know a witch by the name of Granger and was simply curious if the two of you were related."

His explanation seemed to appease her and she took a few seconds to think it over. "Not many parts of the family have dropped the hyphen, if you take my meaning," she shrugged, turning back to her brewing, "but I suppose it's possible. You should introduce us."

Cleantha, who had observed their exchange with her usual detached interest, turned curious eyes fully toward him now. Everyone knew about his relationship with Eunice Macmillan, but her and Fawley presented the only friendships anyone could be certain of—even Andrus was little better than a question mark to most. A witch by the name of Granger was news, a brand new piece to the puzzle that Tom presented, and Selwyn appeared to be an avid collector.

But Hermione was a secret that couldn't fully be shared, not if he wanted to keep his inexplicable power over time to himself. All he could do was brush off the questioning look and offer the incredibly fake-sounding cover story that he'd already given to Slughorn. "Her family's moved to the continent, I'm afraid."

For as flimsy and childish as that excuse appeared, Cleantha somehow seemed to take him at his word. "Now?" she asked, looking a touch shocked. "Her parents must be mad! My dad says a bloke named Grindelwald's been stirring up too much trouble—any sane person would stay here, where it's safe."

Hestia laughed at that and countered, "They do say that Beauxbatons and Durmstrang offer subjects that Hogwarts simply _won't_."

"I doubt a little Dark Magic is worth the trade off, Hesti," Selwyn rolled her eyes and argued good naturedly, sounding rather like the two of them had had this conversation before. "Unlike those other schools, Hogwarts is impregnable. If I were you, Tom," she turned slightly, addressing him once more, "I'd talk to her parents about having her transfered here before war breaks out."

For once, Tom found himself stumped. What could he even say to that? He'd gone out of his way not to meet the elder Grangers, unable to stomach the thought of witnessing firsthand how they would be intrinsically closer to their daughter than he was. And even if he had managed to build up some kind of report with them, he doubted it was anywhere within his admittedly prodigious skills to convince them that attending the same school, fifty-two years in the past was really the best thing for Hermione. He imagined they were dumbfounded enough by the state of things in the 1990's, adding time-travel into the mix would only result in disaster.

However, Hestia saved him from having to answer; she quickly challenged her friend, replying, "The war's _already_ started, it's just a matter of how fast and far it will spread. And anyway, who knows what side her family supports."

"With a name like _Granger?"_ the auburn-haired witch asked with a snort, sounding very much as if she thought the other girl was being thick.

Hestia's dark eyes flashed and she raised a disdainful brow at the other girl as she warned, "Watch it, Clee; that smart tongue will be the death of you someday."

The two girls were tense for a long moment, but then smiled at each other—that same, dangerously sharp conspirator's grin that Selwyn had offered to him not moments ago. There was something appealing, something _familiar_ about the pointed way these two girls spoke with one another. They did not demure or simper, talked of conflict and politics in place of fanciful or girlish things, and though they possessed the same aristocratic flair as Andrus there was nothing particularly coquettish about their exchange. Hermione would have been delighted by them, sharp edges and all, happy to match intellects with these like-minded individuals. That she'd ended up trapped in Gryffindor was a tragedy he still couldn't quite wrap his thoughts around; blood purity aside, she was better suited to Slytherin, to the serious and far more mature way his House comported itself. The dull ache throbbed to life once more as he pictured Hermione beside him now, exchanging conspicuous albeit playful barbs with Selwyn and Dagworth-Granger. She would have fit in with them in ways that wouldn't take a bloody troll attack to illuminate.

"You're very quiet, Riddle," Hestia interrupted his thoughts, chasing the fantasy away in place of the here and now. "Not on our account, I hope."

Tom offered the two girls his own twisted smile, the one that promised trouble and profit all in one. "I'm just enjoying the show," he quipped lightly, sparing a moment to make sure his potion was still on track. "It's so rare that I get a front row seat like this."

Cleantha hummed and began dicing herbs as Slughorn strolled passed the trio—beaming at the three of them, clearly overjoyed by something. "You should have done that little trick of yours ages ago, you know. You've put us all in a bit of a bind; there's a lot of lost time to make up for," she said at length, briefly chastising him with a little waggle of her paring knife once the Professor had wandered off. At Tom's guardedly blank look, she smiled and explained, "Slytherin's hierarchy is usually solidified by the second term, but you just changed everything. We're all back at square one now, scrabbling for purchase."

It was a confirmation of what Lestrange had told him; if he was to have any hope of his own House taking him seriously then he would have to shift the tide of power in his favour before the summer holidays. A part of him had suspected it would take a few underhanded miracles and some aggressive pulling at the strings of one Alphard Black—all of which he'd been fully prepared to do—but these were good tidings. If he'd managed to throw the First Years into chaos already, then he'd created more opportunity than he had counted on; alliances were up for grabs and he was eager to begin collecting. A good thing, to be sure, and yet… despite the increase in pointed stares and hidden whispers, he didn't really feel as if anything had changed. To that effect, he confided in the two girls, "The rather unwelcoming air of the boys dorm would beg to differ."

"They're just jealous and—if you don't mind my saying so—a bit thick," Hestia shrugged with a roll of her eyes. "I'm going to let you in on a secret, Tom: the male portion of Slytherin might have ambition in spades, but the truly cunning half lies with the women. Those boys understand your worth, but they're going to fight it tooth and nail for the stupidest reasons."

Her words were insulting and flattering all at once, and Tom couldn't help but chuckle at how openly she allowed herself to speak. Content to let the conversation play itself out, he prodded, "And the two of you have no such qualms?"

Cleantha's pale eyes glittered, and for all that she usually appeared so remarkably aloof she chose now to borrow some of her friend's frankness. "We all knew you were clever—more than anyone really thought you had a right to be with an unknown name like yours—but now it turns out you're powerful as well, and that _means_ something in our House."

"They like to talk big about their _precious_ bloodlines," their brunette companion spit out, and it was comforting to hear that someone else found that whole ideology tedious, "but when it comes right down to it all that really matters is the strength of your magic. Eventually they'll follow you, if only because they'll be too afraid to miss out on whatever benefits they might be granted by riding your coattails."

Flattery again. When he had played this game with Andrus back in October, honeyed words like these had sent up red flags, but here and now with these two girls, Tom didn't feel quite as threatened. Probably because Cleantha and Hestia didn't seem interested in recruiting him as their toady—they clearly wanted _something_ from him, but they were shockingly, refreshingly honest about that. They weren't even attempting to pretend that this was less of a conversation than it was the prelude to a negotiation. He could respect their candor, but they were mistaken if they thought he'd bring the conversation to a head before they did; if they wanted something from him, then they would damn well ask. Side-stepping Hestia's candied visions of the future, he replied, "Then I think it rather tries my patience that I'm being made to jump through so many unnecessary hoops."

Cleantha laughed, earning startled looks from a few nearby tables. "You're not much for tradition, are you?" It wasn't clear whether she was referring to his method of social mobility or his conversational maneuvering, and she moved on too quickly for him to ponder it overlong. "But you're a Slytherin through and through, I can tell."

"Am I? What makes you so sure?" He turned back to stirring his potion, affecting an air of disinterest as he added, "There's been quite a lot of talk that I'm a little too blue and bronze to really be a snake." As much as he could value some of the qualities that the Ravenclaws held dear, the idea that he was not cunning or ambitious enough, that he was somehow too _lacking_ to belong to the House of his own ancestor felt like a livid bruise that everyone kept prodding at.

Selwyn was undeterred by his statement, recalling, "You were so unimpressed last night—bored, almost—while performing magic that no other student in that Hall would have even thought to attempt. You have to be a Slytherin, because why else would you bother indulging yourself in a petty song and dance that you clearly found tedious?" She paused her own work in order to meet his gaze, and once she was sure she really had his attention, continued, "Ambition makes you stay the course, just like it does the rest of us."

Hestia, meanwhile, had clearly grown a bit bored as the conversation appeared to be no closer to whatever it really was they wished to talk about. A bit archly, she attempted to redirect the topic, "That little trick of yours, impressive as it was, clearly wasn't the one you actually wanted to perform. What are you hiding from the rest of us, Tom?"

He was impressed by her intuition; it wasn't likely she'd guessed he was a _Snake-Speaker_ , but she'd obviously sensed _something_. Tom had been so focused on Black and his cronies that he hadn't spared much attention to anyone else at the table. Cleantha had been of interest only because she'd introduced herself, but if he stretched his memory he had the vague impression of Hestia sitting beside her—and it was a little disconcerting to think that she'd perceived so much of him while he'd barely even registered her. He'd clearly grown a little _too_ used to be overlooked; it was so easy to forget that there were eyes everywhere. Perhaps Hermione's accusations of shortsightedness weren't so far off base after all. Pushing back his disconcertion, he offered her a playful grin and challenged, "Surely you can think of more subversive ways to find out than just asking me."

"A test then?" The brunette's eyes gleamed, seemingly delighted by this turn. "We could whisper into the ears of the Carrows or the Rosiers—"

"Find out what it is that Lestrange is hiding on your behalf," Cleantha cut in, mirroring her companion's expression.

Tom snorted, unimpressed. "As if Alphard Black hasn't already tried that."

"Oh, yes, we heard the rumours," Hestia replied airily. "Illegitimate Lestrange, wasn't it?"

Cleantha turned her pale gaze upon him, taking his measure from head to toe. "You certainly have their colouring," she mused, "but you don't look much like a Lestrange to me."

"They've always tended toward the stocky side," Hestia agreed. "Tall and angular would suggest more of a Black."

"Or a Crouch."

"Or maybe even a Greengrass," the two girls grinned, clearly on a roll.

"It was smart of you to cloud the waters like that," Selwyn admitted, sobering quickly. "As much as Purebloods hate uncertainty, it's going be hard for anyone to stand against you when they're too busy wasting energy on trying to figure out _what_ you are. Personally, I look forward to seeing what you do next."

Tom fought off the urge to lick his lips. Finally, they were at the heart of the matter, prelude played out and negotiations ready to begin. Carefully, so as not to appear overeager, he asked the pair, "And what price would the two of you pay for front-row admission to that particular show?"

The delicate, fae-like curves of Hestia's face sharpened for a moment, dark eyes filling with enthusiasm as they got down to business. "My, we _are_ the industrious little politician, aren't we?"

"Come now, Tom," Cleantha interjected enticingly, "surely you wouldn't expect so much from your new friends, would you? We're so eager to show you off!"

The price they were offering to pay was clear: a potential alliance had been placed upon the table along with the optimistic possibility of some tenuous loyalty stretching beyond just the two of them. Unlike Lestrange, they would not have to be overpowered, threatened, or frightened into helping him. But what did they want in return? "Grateful as I am," he drawled, "I can't help but wonder at your motives."

"Good, we'd think less of you if you didn't," Cleantha smiled in that sharp way of hers again. As if she'd been waiting all this time for that offhand sign of awareness from him, she finally revealed, "The Blacks love to set up court whenever they arrive at Hogwarts, they take it as their due."

Hestia grimaced, as if it pained her to speak of this, and picked up where her friend left off, "But our families, old and powerful though they may be, have never been particularly well in with the Blacks."

The Dagworth-Grangers were wealthy and famous thanks to their success at potioneering, but they were not part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and to a family like the Blacks that _mattered_. On the other side of that coin were the Selwyns, who _were_ part of the registry, but their infamously private nature had led them to be disregarded by many of the other families. And these two enterprising creatures were clearly not content with that state of affairs—Alphard's inattention had made enemies out of them, and the boy didn't even seem to know it. Tom represented their best chance to break out of the dissatisfying hierarchy they'd been sorted into, the greatest opportunity to exact revenge upon a system that had treated them with less than they thought they were owed. He felt an unsurprising amount of kinship with that—if there was only one thing in this world that he could understand and respect, it was the desire for revenge. The three of them—four if he counted Andrus—would work well together.

"That is a shame," he replied silkily. "Two nice, young girls like you getting snubbed when everyone knows Black wouldn't hesitate to bow down to the likes of Eunice Macmillan?" Their countenances darkened, perhaps feeling that he was treating their gender with a little too much flippancy, so he held up a hand, crooning, "Oh, don't get me wrong, Eunice is a clever enough student, but Slytherin concerns should stay in Slytherin hands, don't you think?"

Ruffled feathers soothed, Hestia nodded. "Yes, we do."

Cleantha gave him a long, searching look—no longer the playful assessment from before, but as if her cold eyes were trying to divine his future. She cocked her head, auburn curls tumbling over one shoulder as she asked him in a tone as serious as the gallows, "Do you have the tenacity, the sheer strength of will, to change the tides in the Common Room, regardless of the longstanding alliances and feuds being perpetuated on behalf of our parents and their parents before them?"

"And then some," he promised, equally grim. "I won't rest until I've had my way, and I think you know that."

"Then we're happy to throw our lot in with you," Cleantha replied with a hint of a smirk. "It's not like you could serve us any worse than Alphard Black does."

Tom didn't care much for that phrasing, but he chose not to take her up on it. For now, it was enough that he'd made some 'friends'. "You keep my interests at heart," he vowed to the two girls, "and I'll keep yours."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something so hilariously, "My girlfriend, you wouldn't know her, she's from Canada," about Tom's cover-story.
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there everybody! I know I haven't been particularly reliable about maintaining a schedule, and for that I apologize. If you ever feel like it's been an especially long time since I updated, try checking my author's profile at FF.net; I post little status updates in there every few weeks.
> 
> As always, big thanks to everyone who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to Nico_Gaiangelo, Sanguinary_Tide, FreyaFallen, fraught, laenamorada, earedien, fakempire, Lexi, Nina, Sharkdiver1980, Chi, Lunavert, Lady_Shadow_666, and Bythefireside for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Story Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	27. He Is A Tutor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previous Chapter: Hermione spent breakfast worried that Lavender and Parvati were going to tattle on her for pushing them the previous night. Harry and Ron jumped to her defense at learning this, and were subsequently shaken when Hermione revealed just how much about Quirrell she'd been hiding from them. The Trio then spent a very uncomfortable Defense lesson watching Quirrell for signs of possession. Meanwhile, Tom made "friends" with Cleantha Selwyn and Hestia Dagworth-Granger, two Slytherin First Years who purportedly support his campaign to usurp Alphard Black and rearrange Slytherin's existing power structure.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: He Is A Tutor

_Hogwarts, 1939_

Tom spent the better part of his evening restlessly wiling away his time in the Library. He'd finished revising his Astronomy charts with Macmillan and Fawley ages ago, had even managed to polish off a two scroll Charms essay while helping Cleantha and Hestia with theirs, and _still_ had hours to go before he could visit Hermione for their first Defense lesson. It had taken some time to land on a viable schedule—mostly thanks to Potter being constantly held hostage by the whims of his overzealous Quidditch Captain—not to mention that the four of them still weren't quite sure _where_ they would hold the meeting, but tonight was finally the night. Tom was anxious to get started, to see what the three Gryffindors might already be capable of doing and therefore wouldn't need to be taught; they didn't have a lot of time at their disposal and if it came down to it, it was possible that they might have to choose which subjects were the most important to focus on.

The wait was killing him. Every second between now and their appointed meeting was one more second that Hermione was left disadvantaged. She would take to the material quickly—she always had, even when they'd been making their own explorations as children. However, the fact that they couldn't meet every night from now to the end of term, that they all had a certain amount of other obligations which prevented them from studying as intensely as he would have liked, irritated him almost beyond his capacity to endure. Quirrell wasn't going to sit nicely by and allow them to catch up; eventually the man was going to make a move of some sort, and they would all have to be prepared before he did.

Tom thought back to the letters he had exchanged with Quirrell—or, rather, the darkness infecting him. The young Slytherin had written something suitably short and dismissive, distantly hoping that perhaps if he was rude enough the possessed Professor would quickly lose interest.

_It has been posed to me that you desire my attention—you have it. Now the question is: why did you want it so badly in the first place?_

He had wanted to sign the short missive so that there could be no doubt he'd finally been roused into communicating, but knew it was a risk that he could not take. With Hermione delivering the letter on his behalf, he had to assume she might take a peek at it—only fair, considering she'd been the one to think up the letter in the first place—but he couldn't deal with the repercussions from her learning his true identity on top of everything else he was already contending with. One day, he would tell her the truth, swallow down his distrust and unease and share _everything_ he could with her, but not until he understood why someone like Quirrell or his darkness were so interested in him.

Hermione, though, apparently wanting to save a bit of face after their last argument, hadn't been tempted to read the letters at all.

"How'd it go?" he had asked her when they'd met up the evening following the exchange.

"Well enough, I suppose," she had shrugged, sounding tired. "We didn't actually talk or anything—I handed the note in with my assignment, and he gave me his response when he passed back some essays we'd done earlier."

He had accepted the small square of parchment from her, proud somehow that she could so nonchalantly brush against danger and come out of things no worse for wear. And yet, pride or not, Tom hadn't been able to stop himself from asking, "Did you read it?"

She'd been neither surprised nor offended by the question, calmly pointing to the wax seal as she'd explained, "It's not mine to read. Besides, I'm rather disenchanted with letters from Quirrell as it is, and I'm beginning to feel a bit like a discount owl service." At that she'd begun worrying at her lip, as if debating something, but had ultimately finished with, "You'll let me know if there's anything important in there, won't you?"

He'd been struck then by how much faith she'd put in him, how much blind trust she had that he would not misuse or jealously guard whatever information was contained within the letter. _Or_ it was a test to see how trustworthy he was, and as much as he hated to fail, he'd been able to do nothing more than slip the unopened missive into his pocket as he'd assured her, "Of course."

It hadn't been until hours later, in the safety of his own time, that he'd dared to break the wax seal. He wasn't quite certain what he'd been expecting of the letter, but he was still thoroughly disappointed by it.

_You'll forgive me for my blunt questioning, I'm sure; you can appreciate that this is not necessarily a scenario I planned for._

_How did you manifest, and why under the guise of such a young child?_

_How did you get your hands on that wand, when I have been assured it is in safekeeping?_

_But above all, what do you have planned? There are already wheels in motion at Hogwarts—it would be a shame if we got in each other's way._

It was little better than gibberish to Tom. From the thin and graceful slant of the letters, he could tell it hadn't been penned by Quirrell—whose own handwriting, from what little he'd glimpsed of it, tended toward the soft and round—so this note was directly from the thing possessing him then. Tom wasn't sure whether to take its cryptic wording as a sign of madness or simple misunderstanding. A part of him wanted to assume that this creature had mistaken him for someone else, but every time he tried he was reminded of Hermione's dogged discovery of Tom M. Riddle.

There was no mistake.

What had Tom done—what _would_ he do—in order to give these strange questions tangible weight and context? What did the creature mean by manifest? What would happened to Tom himself in the next fifty years that would necessitate putting his wand into safekeeping? Why did the darkness assume he had anything planned? Who was this to be so deeply interested in him, and why was there the pervasive feeling throughout the short letter that the unnatural shade assumed they should be working together?

Tom was left with a handful of puzzle pieces, none of which fit one another. Somehow, he'd come away from the brief communication with even more questions than he'd had going in, and absolutely no idea of where to proceed from here. One thing was clear, though: time-travel didn't seem to have yet entered the thoughts of Quirrell or his master. If there was any silver lining in this whole fiasco, it was that.

"Mr. Riddle," Slughorn's habitually jovial voice interrupted his thoughts, "a moment of your time, if you please?"

Tom looked up from where he'd been rather blankly glaring at his Transfiguration assignment, having somewhat forgotten he was even in the Library as his thoughts had wandered to the future, as they were often wont to do. He quickly tried to school his expression into something more politely curious, but must not have entirely succeeded based upon Slughorn's amused mien.

"There's no need to look so solemn, Tom," the Professor chuckled, helping himself to a seat across the table, "you're not in any trouble." This was beginning to feel distinctly like the last time he'd had a one-on-one with his Head of House and, sure enough, Slughorn almost immediately began chatting about his social entanglements. "It's wonderful to see you talking to your peers; you had us all worried for a moment there."

How was he meant to respond to that? It was uncomfortable to think that any adult—like a certain Deputy Headmaster, for instance—had been watching him closely enough to be worried in the first place. He didn't like the idea of their casual observation and subsequent judgement, as if he were little better than some small creature at the zoo to be gawked at. Coming up blank, he offered a perfunctory, "Thank you, Sir," in return.

Slughorn, who seemed to have mistaken his loss of words for embarrassment, beamed at him. "You seem quite close to Misses Selwyn and Dagworth-Granger," he observed, "lovely girls, just lovely." It was no secret that the Potions Master collected talented or well-connected students and, though he tried to keep himself aloof from the younger years, it was clear that he still had favourites. Hestia Dagworth-Granger, whose family was renowned for their innovative potioneering, could almost rival the amount of attention the young Professor paid to Tom himself—and Slughorn appeared downright giddy that a few of his favoured students were forming ties. "I told you patience would be rewarded in the long run, didn't I?"

"Indeed," Tom murmured, secretly amused at how far off Slughorn was from the truth of things—Cleantha and Hestia were quick to act familiar with him, but their relationship was first and foremost one of practicality. If a true friendship ever did develop there, it would always be balanced against their perceived usefulness, no different from how his relationship with Andrus was. An awkward moment stretched out as the young Slytherin pondered these things, one which the older man didn't seem in any rush to fill, so Tom prompted, "Was that all, Professor?" in the hopes of moving things along. Though he had more than enough time to waste this particular evening, he was not keen on on spending any substantial part of it coyly pretending that he was excited to have found his place in Slytherin—there was still far too much work to be done before he could truly celebrate his success.

Slughorn brightened, as if only just remembering why he'd come over in the first place. "Actually, I wanted to discuss your most recent assignment. Excellent work! I don't think I've ever met such an insightful First Year," he replied. Then, glancing at the stacks of books piled upon Tom's otherwise abandoned table, quietly continued, "Interesting, though, that you should choose to write about aniseed, particularly since it's not considered part of the First Year curriculum."

The careful phrasing and guarded looks made it obvious that Slughorn feared he was staving off loneliness by throwing himself into his studies, nevermind that they'd just been talking about the two "friends" he'd made. It would be easy to lie and suggest that his Ravenclaw companions had spurred his interest in research and theory—it would be _safer_ to lie—but there was another option open to him, one that would pander to the Professor and make him feel as if he'd been helpful. During their last conversation, poking around at Dumbledore's behest no doubt, Slughorn had asked after the young witch Tom had claimed to know prior to attending Hogwarts; nothing particularly useful had come of that exchange, but the Professor had offhandedly suggested getting back in touch with the girl. It was no less than the truth, really—Tom had repaired his friendship with Hermione and _had_ worked on that particular assignment while visiting her—and the opportunity to be honest while still obfuscating the full reality of the situation was always a joy to him. Quietly, hoping that flattering Slughorn might convince him to pay less attention to the young Slytherin, Tom started, "I took your advice, Sir, and wrote to my friend studying abroad—"

The Professor, eager and apparently easily distracted, interrupted him with a loud, "Wonderful! And how is the young lady?"

"Lonely, I think," he confessed, trying not to grimace when he inevitably thought about her misfit companions. It wasn't like the two Gryffindors even came close to matching her intellect—from what he understood, Potter and Weasley were more keen to copy her work than contribute anything useful to her thought process—so at least that honour was his alone. "She said she wasn't feeling very challenged, and it just so happened that we had similar assignments to work on, so we made something of a game out of it." She'd been a bit scandalised at first, insisting that their homework should not be turned into _mere frivolity_ , but had eventually conceded that their competitive natures might spur them into focusing a little harder. "Whoever could get the highest marks using a subject that wasn't discussed in class or the assigned book wins."

Slughorn, who, for a Slytherin, was appallingly awful at keeping his emotions off his face, offered Tom a proud smile and replied, "I daresay I know the victor."

"Thank you, Professor, but I'm not so certain," Tom said, allowing himself a moment of truly genuine honesty. "Hermione is meticulous to a fault, particularly when it comes to research. I wouldn't be at all surprised if we end up at a stalemate." She had always seemed to labour under the impression that magic came more easily to him—perhaps it did—and tried to make up for that perceived fault by mapping out everything that could be conceivably understood about a subject. It was a compulsive habit of hers that had only deepened once they'd gained access to the Library—at times it irritated Tom to no end, but he could admit that without her over-preparation prodding against his own need to perform just as well, if not better, he might not have put even half as much effort into his schoolwork as he was beginning to.

"A shame she did not come to Hogwarts, then," Slughorn put in, barely this side of dreamily. "I'm beginning to think that the two of you in a classroom together would be quite the sight to behold!" Tom had to stop himself from imagining it, from picturing what could be— _if only, if only, if only_ —and focused, instead, on his Professor's next question, "Do the pair of you do this often with your homework?"

"We've only just reconnected in the last few months," Tom replied easily, "but I do get the feeling that this will become a regular rivalry for us. Unless you'd prefer I stop?" There wasn't a chance he'd follow through on that, but it didn't hurt to appear as if he were willing to.

"Merlin, no," Slughorn burst out, sounding nearly aghast at the idea. He collected himself quickly and, much softer, confessed, "I know I'm not alone in noticing your boredom. That's not meant as a criticism, you understand—you're a bright young man who takes to his studies quicker than the average student." And yet, somehow, it _did_ feel like a criticism; as if Tom's frequent disinterest had somehow made him less deserving or trustworthy to the staff. "To be honest, we were all worried that your marks might begin to slip because you weren't feeling engaged. If this is what it takes to make your assignments interesting, then by all means _proceed_ ," his Professor continued in a serious tone that was quite at odds with his usual bravado. "I can only give you points so high, and all your work this term has been exemplary, but this essay was something else entirely; it was _beyond_ rote correctness, _more_ than just a simple recitation of facts, and I would _very much_ like to see more of its ilk."

Slughorn might be a softy, but he was _still_ a Slytherin, and from him those encouragements sounded suspiciously like a challenge—one Tom was more than willing to meet and inevitably exceed in his own way. He was shocked to think that any of his professors had been quietly waiting to watch him slide into a slow spiral of self-induced failure. And he couldn't even blame them for it, really; in retrospect, he'd only ever put forth enough effort to get a perfect score, and certainly hadn't challenged himself beyond that, particularly not when his attentions were so frequently required elsewhere. It certainly hadn't helped that what little Hermione had discovered of Tom M. Riddle had all pertained to his academic achievements—in a way it had felt like a guarantee that he would achieve the sort of excellence he sought. Which was exactly the sort of false hope that made him so adamant about avoiding knowledge of his own future. Had those assurances affected his performance, or was this the way it had always been and he simply hadn't realised it?

It was a mistake that needed correcting; even knowing that his future exam scores had broken records suddenly wasn't enough. He would prove his Professors wrong, spite even those scores he knew about and allow himself to be drawn deeper into his studies, if only to show everyone that there was far more to little orphan Riddle than met the eye. So they expected mediocrity from him, did they?

He would bloody well be the _best_ student Hogwarts had _ever_ seen.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1991_

Hermione sat in the Gryffindor Common Room, nervously waiting for the last few stragglers to finally wander off to bed. She was meant to be helping Harry, Ron, and Neville start their History of Magic assignments, but she found herself too anxious to be of any real help. Tonight was the night—once the Common Room had cleared out, she would send word to Tom, and the five of them would finally get to begin their Defense lessons together.

Her gaze wander over to Neville—who seemed a bit confused as to what was going on, but was nonetheless happy to be included—and once more wondered if she was doing the right thing. Tom had not reacted well to Harry and Ron, even with the benefit of advanced warning; to spring another Gryffindor on him without so much as asking… Well, she wouldn't be _surprised_ by his anger, that was for certain. She could justify the action to herself, repeat over and over that Neville needed help and in some strange way Tom might actually be good for him, but it didn't ease her uncertainty or her fear.

She'd been pushing Tom a lot lately, if she thought about it: keeping secrets and starting arguments, stoking up his temper until she wasn't quite sure when he would blow. He'd taken a lot in stride for her, however she couldn't help but wonder if this, if Neville, was crossing a line. After all, the more people that came into contact with Tom, the far more likely it was that his secret would be exposed—a danger if ever there was one. Only… Tom wasn't exactly a paragon of open, friendly honesty himself. He kept secrets by the handful, lied to her when it suited him, and surprised her with information as necessary. If they were equals, then why should she be held to polite rules he clearly didn't subscribe to himself? She had to start being assertive about the things she wanted, otherwise the sheer magnitude of Tom's personality might bury her. The idea didn't settle her nerves though, and the last thing she wanted to do was anger her Slytherin so deeply that he stopped visiting again.

With her thoughts circling that daunting possibility, Hermione glanced around in an effort to distract herself. The pair of Fifth Years playing chess in the corner had finally called it a night, clearing off their board and heading up to their beds. That just left the Weasleys, then. Fred and George were pouring through a book of hexes while Percy sat nearby and shot them disapproving looks from over the top of his Herbology homework.

It was strange how much fondness the sight of those three boys could evoke from her, and she realised with a jolt that she felt a surprising amount of kinship with the older Weasleys. Percy didn't come as much of a shock; despite his pompous attitude, she'd liked him from the very first, and he had done more to help her adjust to life at Hogwarts than anyone. The Twins, though, were a bit of a curiosity for her; behind all their silly jokes was a core of rather stark intelligence. By all accounts, she should have found it appalling that they wasted their potential on such frivolous and destructive pursuits, but she honestly couldn't find it with herself to be too disapproving most of the time; they were far too charming for their own good. Besides which, she felt as if they'd been looking out for her ever since she'd confessed her troubles to Ron and Harry. Even Percy, who usually performed his Prefect duties absolutely by the book, seemed to be keeping an eagle's lookout on Parvati and Lavender, and had more than once turned a blind eye to the Twins' scheming around the two girls. There was nothing more important than family to the Weasleys and she had a funny feeling that she'd been unwittingly adopted. Being an only child, she found their arch way of helping her out a bit confusing, but then she'd never had brothers before—perhaps this was simply how it was done in large families.

It took another quarter hour before the Twins finally wandered off, Percy following closely behind with a suspicious glint in his eyes. The First Years waited with baited breath for several long moments, but when no one returned it seemed as if they'd finally been left alone. It was time to act.

Hermione packed away her mostly forgotten essay and sprang to her feet, Harry and Ron quickly following suit.

Neville glanced between the three of them and frowned. "What's going on?"

She suppressed the urge to fidget and replied, "Someone else is going to be joining us." Hermione felt a bit guilty about stringing the other Gryffindor along—she hadn't really told him much, to be honest, just that a couple friends were getting together to practice the things Quirrell wasn't really teaching them. Neville hadn't seemed too sure about the idea of going behind any of the professors' backs, but had eventually relented.

Now, though? Now, he appeared truly suspicious, round face drawn into an ever deepening grimace. "This all seems a bit dramatic for a study group, don't you think?" he asked carefully. "I mean, why all the secrecy, and why are we meeting after curfew?"

Hermione knew it was cruel of her—cruel not to tell Neville the truth and cruel to expect Harry and Ron to keep that secret—but she simply couldn't find it within herself to be completely honest just now. She liked Neville and she wanted to help him, but not at the expense of Tom's continued safety. It wasn't that she felt the other Gryffindor was untrustworthy, per se, but… Well, Neville did have a way of forgetting things, and she didn't think she'd ever met an unluckier boy in all her life, excepting perhaps a notable orphan or two. It was safer not to tell him the truth, at least that's what she kept trying to convince herself. "My friend," she replied at length, forcing the words out, "the one who's leading the group, he's a bit… different."

Ron rolled his eyes and snorted, "By which she means he's a Slytherin." As apparent as the redhead's distaste for Tom still was, he'd clearly put aside at least some of his feelings in order to protect the secret they all were keeping.

" _What?"_ Neville croaked, eyes widening in fright.

"Don't panic," she rushed to soothe him, "it's not Malfoy or anything, I promise! In fact, I daresay you won't know him at all." Slipping the tarnished silver watch from her skirt pocket, she checked the time and bit her lip. It was getting late; they really couldn't afford to delay any longer. "I need to go fetch him so that we can get started. Are you alright with this, Neville?"

Neville struggled for a moment, looking very much like he wanted to bolt for the stairs, but eventually gave a valiant nod.

Hermione returned the gesture, then shot Harry and Ron a look—they had agreed to distract the other Gryffindor while she communicated with Tom. As soon as Neville's back was turned, she slipped to a secluded nook in the Common Room and flipped open the secret compartment of her watch.

Tom appeared beside her after a brief delay, dark eyes sweeping his surroundings in that meticulous fashion of his. And, just as she'd suspected it would, his obsidian gaze caught on Neville and narrowed forebodingly. Tom regarded her for a painfully silent moment, then sneered and asked, "Another stray for your collection?"

Disdain was better than outright anger, she could work with this if she played her cards right. "Don't be rude," Hermione told him firmly. "You were a stray once too, you know."

He raised a dark brow at that, somehow amused and offended all at once. "Are you suggesting I've been domesticated?"

"Merlin forbid," she rolled her eyes in teasing exasperation. She glanced over to the group of Gryffindors—they were all worriedly waiting to see the Slytherin's reaction. There wasn't any time for this sort of nonsense, not if they actually wanted to get any studying done tonight, so she pressed on matter of factly, "Look, Neville needs someone to help him pluck up his courage."

"And you think _I'm_ that someone?" Tom's other brow rose to join the first, incredulous as his amusement faded. "Have you gone mental?"

"I think regularly being around a Slytherin—someone different from us, but still part of the group—will help settle his nerves," Hermione replied. Tom's dark eyes glinted, seemingly torn between the desire to argue the point with her and being secretly pleased to have been called part of the group. She didn't wait to see which desire would win out; she'd long ago learned that her orphan was agreeable to just about anything if it appealed to certain instincts, and he was _very_ fond of teaching. Pressing quickly ahead, she added, "Besides, he could really use your tutoring."

That gave the Slytherin pause, but his natural tendency toward isolation was already rearing its head. Posture tight and prickly, he huffed, "Great, so I bring you a higher standard of education and you bring me an anxiety-riddled idiot." He glared at her then, and she was somewhat relieve to notice that it wasn't an especially angry one; he was just a bit put out, really. "Something about that exchange doesn't quite seem fair."

She shrugged, because she already knew that, didn't she? She'd been giving herself a sour stomach all night worrying about how unfair it really was—to _everyone_ involved—but she was determined to see this through. "That's what friendship is."

"An inherently unequal balance that perpetually tips in your favour?" he asked snidely, not at all impressed by her logic.

" _Tom_ ," she bit out warningly, not having to remind him of all the times that balance had swung wildly toward him. To the approximate tune of about three years, no less.

Accusations laid unspoken between them—manipulator, liar, opportunist—and just when she thought for certain that they were about to devolve into one of their more dangerous rows, Tom breathed out a laugh. It was a quiet thing compared to the wild sound he usually made, but his humour was no less apparent. "The lengths I go to for you," he said softly, half a smile quirking his lips. With a nod toward the waiting Gryffindors, he indicated their newcomer and asked, "What do you intend to tell him, exactly? He's bound to notice something's off."

Hermione bit at her lip as she glanced toward Neville, swamped once more by the inescapable feeling that she was going about this all wrong. Still, Tom had a right to his privacy, and if Neville didn't strictly _need_ to know… "We'll cross that bridge when we get there," she replied tightly, ignoring the guilty twist in her stomach. "For the time being, I think he'll be so nervous about standing anywhere near a Slytherin that he won't think to ask any questions."

"Is that your polite way of saying he's thick?" Tom inquired, cocking his head to the side.

"No," she frowned at him sharply, silently trying to convey that he should behave himself. "He just needs some help getting himself in order—I know Neville can learn all the First Year material, even if he doesn't think so."

"How sentimental," Tom drawled, a cold smirk twisting the corners of his mouth. "Are you aiming to be his professor or his mother?"

"Don't get nasty with me," Hermione warned him, glaring hotly. Although, truthfully, this wasn't at all like the Slytherin in a nasty mood; if anything, this was almost his idea of being playful. "Are you in or out?"

Tom let the odd look drop in favour of amused resignation. "As he's already seen me, I don't suppose there would be much point in bowing out now," he shrugged. "I'm not happy about this, but I'll allow it."

Unhappy and furious were two _incredibly_ different things where her friend was concerned. She wasn't proud to have irritated him, but his relatively easy acceptance of Neville still felt like a victory. Offering the morose boy a cheery smile, she link hands with him and joked, "Are you going to strongarm him into protecting me as well?"

His long fingers flexed around her own as he pondered the question far more seriously than she'd intended him to. "However unwieldy, half a shield is still a shield," he finally replied. Then, after a weighty moment, added, "I think I know just the place to boost everyone's confidence a little bit."

That was excellent news! Despite Ron's best efforts, the Twins hadn't told him anything suitable—Ron had grumbled for days that his brothers were clearly holding out on him—and it had left them all scrambling to look for an appropriate location that they wouldn't be easily discovered in. So far all they'd managed to come up with was the sporadic Astronomy study room, whose very nature put severe restrictions on its usage, and the Hall of Academic Excellence, which was cramped with memorabilia and very likely the sort of place that Quirrell might show up. Tom's idea honestly couldn't be any worse than the lackluster options they'd come up with on their own.

"Is it safe?"

He smiled, clearly liking the idea the more he thought it over. "I doubt anyone will stumble across us that deep into the dungeons; the trick will be getting there unnoticed."

Hermione wasn't sure she liked the idea of wandering so far into Slytherin territory—Snape's classroom being the only part of the dungeons she was really familiar with—but Tom _was_ a Slytherin, after all. If he felt comfortable going to this place and trusted that it was secretive enough, then she was willing to go. And getting there wouldn't be nearly as difficult as Tom assumed, thanks to Harry's own anonymous Christmas present. "It won't cover all five of us," she replied slowly, "but Harry's got an Invisibility Cloak."

With that matter settled, she pulled her friend toward the waiting Gryffindors. Introductions went about as well as anyone could expect. Tom was _almost_ on his best behaviour, as per usual, and Neville hardly seemed able to look directly at him let alone carry a conversation. It wasn't perhaps the most auspicious start for their little group, but there was no denying that it could have gone much worse.

Everyone seemed a bit relieved that Tom, at least, had a place in mind to hold their meeting, although no one was particularly cheered by the idea of sneaking all the way into the dungeons. Still, with no better options available, there was really no point in arguing against it, and Harry was happy to lend his Invisibility Cloak to the cause. Figuring out the logistics of the Cloak took a few moments, however. It was a rather generously large garment by most standards, and at a guess she would say that it could probably fit up to two, _maybe_  three very smallish adults at a stretch. But five children, at least two of whom were quite tall for their age? Not a chance. Tom, who seemed eager for any excuse to distance himself from the rowdy Gryffindors, volunteered to remain outside the Cloak—a suggestion that didn't sit particularly well with Hermione until he very quietly reminded her that unlike the rest of them, he could disappear to his own time at a moment's notice.

It turned out that fitting even four people under the Cloak was a cumbersome endeavor. They were cramped together uncomfortably close, scuttling awkwardly through the castle. By the time they reached the Entrance Hall, Hermione was actually a bit jealous of the Slytherin leading them.

It was strange watching Tom move through the darkness, sweeping from shadow to shadow like a whisper, barely visible save for the flash of green and silver upon his robes. He seemed well-versed in this fluid form of travel—reminding her of the pickpockets and thieves she so frequently read stories about—and she couldn't help but wonder once more what his life had truly been like prior to Hogwarts that he should be so good at this uncanny subterfuge at such a young age. She was almost certain that even if a Professor or patrolling Prefect did cross their path, those unwitting eyes would skim straight passed Tom, unable to pierce his ghostly camouflage.

* * *

Though he couldn't see them behind him, Tom could sense the Gryffindors getting more and more restless the longer it took to reach their destination. He couldn't help that Slytherin's Classroom was buried so deep beneath the school, though he was doing his best to lead them down the most direct route he knew of. It was no stretch to admit that he wasn't terrifically keen to be sharing this legacy with even more students, particularly these boys he still didn't see the use of, but they needed the bluestone's help. Between how little time was left before the end of the year and _yet another_ vaguely incompetent boy he didn't know surfacing into Hermione's life, there just didn't seem to be any recourse—surviving Quirrell would take a miracle that only the bluestone might be able to grant them.

They reached the room without incident, a stroke of luck considering Tom wasn't enamored with the idea of traveling more than twice this evening. One round trip through the ever-worsening Void was _more_ than enough.

Despite his reluctance in allowing the assembled company into this sanctum of Slytherin education, he was still suitably pleased with their awed reactions. All three boys looked gobsmacked, glancing around in wonder and trepidation. And Hermione…

Hermione ran her fingers between the rough-hewn slabs of stone and the polished marble worktops, taking in the room in that quietly acquisitive way of hers—as if gazing upon it and adding it to the great stores of her mind somehow made that knowledge intrinsically _hers_. She never sought to own these things, not in the ways Tom knew he himself did; somehow, she satisfied that greed simply through the experience and the information it left her with. His Gryffindor moved through the room with reverence, and despite the vaguely proprietary way she gazed upon the central lectern, he knew she would never dare to think of this room as hers. Which was a shame really, because out of anyone else there, Tom would have been the most willing to share ownership of it with her—something to add to the little kingdom of _theirs_ , like the bracelets and the watches.

"What is this place?" one of the other boys breathed quietly.

And before Tom could even think of answering, Hermione beat him to it. "Salazar Slytherin's Classroom," she replied, giddy with excitement. "But I read that it was lost."

"Forgotten, more like," Tom shook his head, leaning against the throne-like podium as the others took in their surroundings. "It seems as if no one comes down to the oldest parts of the castle anymore."

Potter frowned, absently rubbing at his scar as he traversed the concentric circles that led up to the centre of the room. "I can see why," he admitted at length. "It's spooky down here."

"That's just the bluestone," Tom offered lazily, pleased to note the satisfied gleam in Hermione's eyes—she'd clearly suspected why he'd brought them to this place, "you get used to it. The point is that our magic is amplified here, so it shouldn't take as long to master new spells. In this room, we stand a decent chance of getting the four of you caught up on Defense before the summer holidays."

He gave the others a few more minutes to wander around and, more importantly, to acclimate to the bluestone. It was certainly more courtesy than he'd offered his own classmates; Andrus in particular had seemed affected by the bluestone. Then again, it was equally possible that the older Slytherin had gone pasty in remembrance of how he'd suffered at Tom's hands, there was really no saying. Still, the atmosphere of the room could be terribly overwhelming at first. The walls almost seemed to breathe, pulsing in the gentle rhythm of a beating heart, and it gave the unsettling impression that they were surrounded by something distinctly _alive_. Even the air itself was heavy with magic, both familiar and not—sometimes the air felt so thick that it was smothering, hard to breathe, and yet the magic teased at them, encouraging them to _cast, cast, cast_. Tom wondered what sorts of magic Slytherin had taught down here, what spells he'd developed and perfected, how deeply he had plumbed the depths of himself to leave behind tangible traces of his aura over a full millennium later.

"So," Weasley broke the silence that had fallen between them, startling Longbottom and interrupting Potter and Hermione's various explorations, "with this being Slytherin's Lost Classroom and all, you don't suppose that means that the…" he faltered, making a wiggly sort of hand gesture, "well, _you know_ is real as well, do you?"

Tom was ill equipped to deal with the redhead even at the best of times, but when the boy was making absolutely no sense? He couldn't stop himself from drawling, "I honestly don't think anyone _other_ than you has any idea how that assemblage of syllables was meant to be interpreted, Weasley."

"Come off it, Davies," the other boy snapped. "You're a _Slytherin_ , you can't expect us to believe that you don't know about the Chamber of Secrets!"

"Do you have a sieve for a brain?" Tom rolled his eyes, ignoring the disapproving frown Hermione was trying to send his way. "How many times does someone have to tell you that I was raised in muggle London before it finally takes? I've never even _heard_ of this Chamber before."

Surprisingly, it was Longbottom—who hadn't made so much as a sound since leaving the Gryffindor Common Room—who answered, "It was supposed to be Slytherin's hiding place, where he kept the subjects and materials that the other Founders didn't approve of."

"Yeah," Weasley snorted, "and a great big monster to gobble up anyone he felt didn't deserve to study magic."

It would be an outrageous lie not to admit that Tom loved secrets—he possessively guarded his own, and delighted in finding out the secrets of others. Though it had often been filled with tedious and irrelevant details, Andrus's society gossip over the holidays had fed a part of Tom that was _always_ hungry. That his own ancestor, whom he still knew so little about, had amassed an entire _Chamber_ of Secrets made him ache with the desire to find it. Imagine the things that Slytherin might have discovered and then hidden away, the rare and arcane magics that Tom might have access to if only he knew where this Chamber was! If someone like Weasley had heard of the legend then it was almost certain Andrus would know _something_ , though it was probably too optimistic to assume that the Chamber's location would be among that information. Perhaps the Seneschal, better versed in the obscure and unknown, would be of more use on that front. After all, she had already granted Tom access to Slytherin's personal writings once—given that those tomes were completely in Parseltongue, it was possible that his ancestor had divulged a few choice secrets. Decoding the journals would take time, more than Tom rightly wanted to spend, but the prospect of discovering the Chamber's location was heady.

Hermione and Longbottom didn't appear overly interested in this turn of conversation. Weasley, of course, was glaring at Tom—but it was Potter who really caught his attention. The boy's emerald eyes glinted with curiosity, just as they did whenever the Philosopher's Stone was brought up. He seemed eager to unravel this mystery as well, an almost pathological habit that would no doubt land the boy in serious trouble one day; not that Tom could blame him, but as far as he was concerned this wasn't any of Potter's business.

Hoping to stem the flow of the boy's interest, as well as deflect some of Weasley's pointed glowering, Tom decided to play the accusation off with nonchalance. "Sounds like a fairytale to me," he replied with an unconcerned shrug, pleased to note Hermione's absent nod of agreement—the last thing he needed was her keen focus piecing together secrets that might not be safe for her to know. "Now if we're all done mucking about, could we please get down to business?"

There were a few rolled eyes in response, which he graciously chose to ignore in favour of asking them more fully what their Defense lessons were usually like. It turned out that there were some things Quirrell had taught with reasonable accuracy—like identifying and treating werewolf bites for instance—but subjects that involved any proper spellcasting had been largely glossed over or even outright lied about.

After a moment of contemplation, Tom decided to start them with the various Dueling stances, which took quite a while to correct. Hermione was easiest, as he was used to the stiff way she often held herself and she was equally familiar with his criticisms and corrections on the matter. Potter, too, required very little attention; the boy took to each new stance with a fluidity that was downright shocking considering his muggle upbringing.

In truth, and as he'd rather suspected, it was Weasley and Longbottom that caused Tom the most trouble. Longbottom held himself so tightly that he'd seemed in danger of shattering at the slightest provocation, and it took a frustrating amount of careful cajoling from Tom to get the other boy to loosen up. Weasley, on the other hand, was already familiar with several of the stances, and held himself far too languidly as a result. When Tom had pointed out that his lazy posture left him dangerously open to attack, the redhead had fired back that it gave him a better range of motion and ease of casting, which had quickly devolved into an argument that had taken Hermione's intervention to put an end to. Under threat of her fierce and darkening glare, Weasley had fussed a bit but ultimately done as instructed. Once everyone finally seemed to be on the same page, they all went through their paces a few times—Tom felt that the five of them together were a rather ramshackle troupe, but by the end of their exercise their form better than anyone could expect from most First Years.

After that, he asked Hermione to take out the notes he'd written her, and they spent the rest of their time learning one of the minor Defensive Charms. It was really only useful in deflecting small projectiles, but it seemed like a good subject to move on to. The incantation and wand movement were both simple enough and, thanks to the bluestone, all four Gryffindors managed it on their first or second try. To practice, Hermione transfigured some spare bits of parchments into a handful of small, squashy balls and they all took turns pelting each other until they could each cast the charm as if it were second nature. Save Longbottom, of course, whose distinct lack of timing left something to be desired; however, the way the other Gryffindors beamed encouragingly at the boy left Tom with the feeling that just even being able to cast the spell was something of a triumph for Longbottom.

All told, they'd covered about two weeks worth of material in a single evening—two very slow, introductory weeks, but it was still more than the Gryffindors had learned since September. If they could maintain that sort of pace for the rest of the year, then Tom was fairly confident he could have them all caught up just in time for exams.

It was very late by the time they called it a night, all of them staving off hearty yawns. Tom offered to show the Gryffindors the way back to their Tower, but Hermione urged him to go straight to bed, insisting that she could remember their path without him. He was quite used to operating on little sleep, having never required much to begin with, but he saw no reason not to allow Hermione her way in this—after all, he needed to reserve at least some energy in order to traverse the Void.

Tom watched the Gryffindors exit the room and slip beneath Potter's Cloak. Once he was entirely certain they were long gone, that no one was around to see his little trick, only then did he throw himself back through the gates of Time.

* * *

_The Void, Date Unknown_

It was a wildly different experience, one he certainly hadn't been prepared for, although at least the unknown had worked in his favour for once. The Void stretched before him, as abyssal and terrifying as he'd remembered it, but it flashed by him so briefly that he'd hardly had time to take it all in. Like the trips of his youth, he passed through the nothingness with an ease that had been markedly absent for a long time now.

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1939_

Tom reappeared in the unused classroom he had traveled from, disoriented for entirely new reasons. Ever since he'd made up with Hermione, traversing the Void had truly begun to _cost_ him. It took a certain mental fortitude to survive the unknowable, and though he had steeled himself with whispers of Parseltongue and thoughts of doe-brown eyes shining with a fervor and frenzy that simply _called_ to him, those cosmic forces had still taken their toll. The initial trip wasn't usually so bad, but the journeys back had always left him feeling shaken and weak-limbed; though perhaps never so much as the time Dumbledore had stumbled across him—the first time the in-between had begun to feel like torture.

Something had changed, something that deviated from the growing pattern Tom had observed. The Void had _lessened_ , but _why?_ Was the in-between shrinking, or was he perhaps finally gaining more control over this strange power?

Even though this was ultimately good news, he could feel his frustration rising, the building urge to mangle and _break_ something for a bit of cheap emotional release. All these unanswered questions were wearing him down, compounding into an ever-worsening sense of failure as he continued _not_ to understand the nature of his traveling. What the bloody hell was this _inconstant_ constant that separated him from Hermione, and why was it the one thing in his life that he was _absolutely never_ able to predict?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long lost, their little Defense club begins!
> 
> A few readers requested that I start adding a brief summary of the previous chapter, and since this story is getting so long and can sometimes go a few weeks between updates I thought that sounded like a great idea. That said, a lot of this story takes place in the small details, so you guys will have to let me know if my summaries are at all helpful.
> 
> As always, my eternal gratitude to those who bookmarked or left kudos, especially to earedien, Lunavert, GeekMom13, Sanguinary_Tide, laenamorada, natsumii, elseryn, Nina, and TheRiddle for leaving comments!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Story Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net.


	28. He Is Unbalancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previous Chapter: After a brief, albeit illuminating conversation with Professor Slughorn, Tom somewhat spitefully vowed to become the greatest student Hogwarts had or would ever see. Over in 1991, Hermione reflected upon her growing relationship with the Weasleys while simultaneously worrying that she was doing everyone a disservice by bringing Neville into the fold without actually telling him anything. Despite her fears, Tom took their newest member in stride and decided to take the four Gryffindors to Slytherin's Classroom for their Defense lesson. After working together for a while, our intrepid First Years parted ways for the night and, much to his ever-mounting frustration, Tom discovered that the nature of the Void was once again changing—only this time, it's gotten shorter and he has absolutely no idea why.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: He Is Unbalancing

_Hogwarts, 1991_

Draco Malfoy was a strange little boy, as far as Hermione was concerned. Eager to prove himself, but unsure how to proceed—he sauntered about as if he owned Hogwarts and lashed out against anyone who threatened his sense of superiority, or who he considered to be beneath him. He'd accrued a long list of targets which amounted to the better part of the entire student body; but without a doubt, his favourite targets were Gryffindors. His focused vitriol seemed to be fueled by one part House rivalry and two parts loathing for  _famous Harry Potter_. Though they had not shared an encounter nearly quite so charged as the one that resulted in the duel-which never-happened, Malfoy's teasing mockery had nonetheless become a part of everyday life. Like a low-level noise that could almost-but-not-quite be tuned out. Sometimes, though, that noise refused to be ignored; occasionally, it roared to a hideous volume, grating upon her nerves and demanding attention.

For reasons that mostly had to do with Malfoy being a git, he and his shadows had chosen to sit behind Hermione, Ron, and Neville during Gryffindor's match against Hufflepuff. Quidditch strained her temper at the best of times—watching Harry fly at break-neck speeds, knowing he could take a Bludger hit, be cursed again, or slip and fall at  _any_  moment left her cold and anxious—and Draco Malfoy's pointed antagonising simply pushed her beyond her breaking point. One cocky exclamation too many, and they all suddenly found themselves in a tense, three-on-three standoff.

It was Ron who threw the first punch, leaping over his own seat to tackle the blond to the ground. Neville, who had never been so reckless since she'd met him, even tried to join the fray, though there was hardly much he could do against meaty slabs like Crabbe and Goyle. Hermione watched them for a stunned moment, incensed but unsure what to do. Despite months of his shallow pestering, she didn't actually  _hate_  Malfoy; mostly, she'd just felt a distant sort of pity for him, but even she could admit that he'd been at his nastiest today—poking fun at the Weasley's finances, calling Neville brainless, and going out of his way to pretend Hermione didn't even exist. Her magic had mounted at every slight, drawing out of her core to whip agitatedly through the air around her, but the sudden explosion of violence left her completely unmoored. She hated confrontation, hated this uncivilised descent into barbarous chaos; there were better ways to solve their problems than just wailing on each other. They weren't cavemen, after all!

Neville hit his empty seat with a dull thud, knocked out cold by the beefy, Slytherin goons. That hollow sound, though barely distinguishable above the roar of the cheering crowds, echoed through her mind for a terrible second. In a startling rush, her thoughts simply fell away—right and wrong blurred and dissolved, supplanted by the sick urgency to  _protect_. She felt her magic rush forward, tripping Crabbe and Goyle until they lost their footing and fell, shrieking, from the stands; they both landed with sharp exclamations, though she doubted the fall had been high enough to do anything other than bruise them a bit. Still furious and on-edge, she turned just in time to watch Ron's fist finally connect with Malfoy's face. She wasn't as dispassionate about that sight as she would have liked to be—the blond's grunt of pain was far more satisfying than she would have imagined, like a cold balm over a livid itch.

The stands suddenly erupted—Harry had caught the Snitch, setting the record for what was likely the shortest Quidditch match to ever be played at Hogwarts—and the three Slytherins used the opportunity to slink away before the fight could get worse or a professor could swoop in and start assigning detentions.

Hermione stared blankly at where Crabbe and Goyle had tumbled out of sight, feeling raw and off balance. Like maybe… maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe she  _had_  robbed Tom of something all those years ago; maybe she'd been silly and naive, and the angry orphan had been right: the most  _effective_  methods to solve a problem were rarely  _kind_. Parvati and Lavender had kept their silence, after all, and had treated her far more judiciously since her outburst—and there was little doubt that Crabbe and Goyle would follow suit, not wanting to instigate a second round or admit that they'd lost a fight to a girl less than half their size. And if there were to be no real repercussions to these two fights, no consequences beyond making life at least temporarily easier, then where was the harm?

Fathomless black eyes flashed through her memories along with the ghost of a twisted, cruel smile that had spoken of  _joy_  in the face of suffering. As much as she hated to side with the terrifying, remote creature Tom had become during those brief seconds when he'd confronted Andy Smythe, she had to admit that she could finally understand his logic. It wasn't just about meeting a challenge, giving in to provocation or proving some sense of authority, it was also about sending a message:  _I let you off easy, threaten me or mine again and I won't be so merciful the second time around_. Bluff or promise, the sentiment held weight, a tangible bargain that would no doubt make someone like Malfoy think twice before attacking them again. The small burst of provoked nastiness had likely staved off dozens of smaller future confrontations, and though there was no doubt that Malfoy would eventually come back, it was hard to deny that standing up to him might have brought the Gryffindors at least some small measure of peace until he finally worked his nerve back up.

Her stomach twisted uneasily, bubbling and churning with guilt at such ruthless thoughts. And yet, as she and Ron struggled to get a still unconscious Neville to the Infirmary, she had to admit that she didn't regret her actions. She'd done the  _wrong_  things for the  _right_  reasons—perhaps that was just a part of friendship that she'd tried a little too desperately to ignore. And maybe, just maybe, she owed Tom an apology for refusing to believe something that he had simply  _understood_.

That idealistic chasm she'd once pictured separating her from Tom no longer felt quite so wide as she'd allowed herself to imagine. Somehow, that thought wasn't very comforting.

In short order, they had Neville under Madam Pomfrey's care, and were prepared to lose themselves to the party that was already raging inside the Gryffindor Common room. Lee Jordan had pulled out his radio and the Twins had stolen some sweets from the kitchens—the whole of Gryffindor was chanting and cheering, celebrating Harry's swift victory. But Harry, secretive and contrary boy that he could be, wasn't there. In fact, it wasn't until nearly a full hour after the match had ended that the green eyed boy finally made his way back to the Tower.

"Harry," Hermione sighed in relief. Visions of Quirrell and his insidious shadow had been dancing through her head—visions of that slippery, oozing charmer sinking its hooks into her loved ones—and she was happy that it appeared nothing dire had happened to Harry over the course of his absence. "Where have you been?"

His emerald eyes gleamed in that particular way of his: an almost feverish sheen that belied his excitement in the face of what he knew made most people frightened or anxious. Instead of answering he looked around, pulled Hermione and Ron close and asked, "Where's Neville?"

"We got into it with the Slytherins," Ron admitted, licking the small split in his lip where he'd accidentally bitten himself during the scuffle, "ended up missing most of the game—sorry." He shuffled a little bit, then looked up and brightly added, "I gave Malfoy a black eye, but Neville sort of got the brunt of Crabbe and Goyle." His eyes darted briefly to her, and she was startled to realise that he must have seen something of her outburst, even if only peripherally, but he held silent on her behalf, though she could scarcely imagine why.

Anxious and not wanting to reflect upon her own actions, Hermione quickly added, "We took Neville to the Infirmary; Madame Pomfrey said he'll likely stay the night, just to be safe." Eyeing the smaller boy, the way he practically vibrated with energy, she asked, "What is it?"

With a sigh, The-Boy-Who-Lived conceded, "You're not going to like this. I was just leaving the supply shed when I noticed someone acting really dodgy, heading for the Forbidden Forest."

"Oh, Harry, you didn't!" she moaned. But of course he had—it wasn't like him to ignore a mystery. And so what if that mystery had ambled out of bounds to students? That probably just made the whole affair all the more irresistible to him. For a moment, she couldn't help but wonder how he'd survived this long when it seemed that his entire life was just comprised of wandering from one spot of trouble to the next.

As she'd suspected he would, Harry nodded. "I used my broom to follow, hid up in the trees; I'm positive they didn't see me. Anyway, that's not the interesting part." He drew in closer, voice dropping low and eager as he continued, "I ended up eavesdropping on a secret meeting between Snape and Quirrell."

Hermione had been relieved when her Gryffindor compatriots had finally opened their eyes to the true nature of Quirrell, but even so she had known that they'd been on the lookout for  _any_  reason to distrust Snape. Their hatred had lingered so strongly that she'd known it was only a matter of time before their Potions Master found himself under the microscope once more. Not that she blamed the two boys; Snape had done precious little to endear himself to non-Slytherin students, and his attitude was so remarkably prejudiced and confrontational that it would be ludicrous for the Gryffindors  _not_  to think him suspicious. Even so, she couldn't hold in her beleaguered groan at Harry's admission.

The two boys eyed her warily, if somewhat stonily, and she shrugged, relenting, "What did they say?"

"You should call up Davies," Harry replied instead, surprising her, "he'll probably want to hear this as well."

She was hardly pleased with the suggestion; it was bad enough that Harry had sought out danger in the first place, nothing good could come of recounting it to the members of their little study group. And yet, she found that she could hardly fault the shorter boy for wanting to involve Tom because—whether Hermione approved or not—they were  _all_  in danger. Tom even moreso, thanks to his precarious circumstances; Harry's desire to include their resident time-traveler was only logical.

Nevertheless, a part of her still fluttered nervously at the idea of facing Tom so soon after her… outburst. An irrational fear was thrumming steadily through her veins: that those piercing, black eyes would take a single look and simply  _know_  what she had done. That no amount of dissembling or prevaricating on her part could stop Tom from coming to the conclusion that she'd made a hypocrite of herself—that she had found a new and startlingly effective way of dealing with her bullies and it was uncomfortably similar to his own past methods. What would he think of her? Would his lips curl in anger that she had resorted to the selfsame violence she'd denied him all those years ago, or would he offer her that  _sharp_ , pleased smile which never failed to make her a little nervous?

It took some effort to swallow those anxieties down, and she made a great show of checking that the corridor and classroom the trio occupied were both perfectly empty, stalling until she felt that she was in complete control of herself once more.

Because, truthfully, she was just being a bit silly, wasn't she? This had happened before—she'd practically made herself sick with fright over the potential fallout that might have occurred had Parvati and Lavender proved less frightened of her—and Tom hadn't guessed at her actions then, so why should he now? She bit her lip and unhappily acknowledged that staying silent might be her best course of action until she'd had time to make more sense of her own thoughts. For if Tom did not guess the truth and she said nothing either way, then it wasn't really lying, was it? Of course, it wasn't strictly being honest either, and was definitely another one of her Slytherin's behavioural indiscretions she wasn't fully comfortable employing, but  _could_  and  _would_  if it gave her even a small reprieve. Right now, the reality of what she'd done—allowing her magic to lash out and physically strike others; thoughtlessly, instinctively employing some measure of violence instead of solving her problems in a more dignified and civilised manner—still left her feeling far too raw and shaken to discuss what had happened. When she was at last certain that she wouldn't immediately blurt out the truth at the first sight of her friend, she flipped open her pocketwatch.

Tom appeared in his customary fashion, swift and silent, dark eyes meticulously sweeping his surroundings and companions for any hint of a threat. He stepped closer to the Gryffindors, closer to Hermione, eyes instinctively seeking out her own, but for once she didn't feel comfortable meeting that gaze, worried by what he might see. Her heart stuttered for a moment under the weight of his presence, and she could not stop herself from hastily looking away lest he read her guilt in that uncanny manner of his. He drew up short and stiffened at her uncharacteristic behaviour, though it was difficult to tell if he was offended or merely concerned. Tom had always been unsettlingly good at keeping the full extent of his thoughts to himself, and her quick, darting glances did nothing to help her decipher his tense bearing, but the slight quirking of his brow made it clear that he knew  _something_  was amiss.

Harry, thankfully, broke the awkward silence before it had the chance to erupt into something volatile. "I caught Snape and Quirrell meeting at the edge of the Forbidden Forest," he said, answering the impatient, if unspoken, question.

" _Blimey_ ," Tom huffed, exasperated, "you're not on about  _him_  again, are you?" When Hermione dared to look at him once more, she could tell that his rigid posture had relaxed, bleeding swiftly into something more like resigned irritation. "I thought we all agreed that Quirrell's  _definitely_  possessed while Snape's  _probably_  just a git."

"Right, well Snape doesn't seem to be on the same page as us," Harry countered, mimicking the Slytherin's beleaguered tone, "and Quirrell was laying the stuttering, innocent act on  _real_  thick for him." All four of them took an uneasy moment to let that pronouncement sink in, before Harry continued, "Snape outright asked Quirrell how to get passed Fluffy, and then there was a bit I didn't really catch about a spell or something Quirrell had done to help protect the Stone."

Hermione had a strong suspicion that she knew where this was going. "You don't think—"

"They're working together," he cut her off, tone surprisingly animated, "and Snape seems to be getting worried that Quirrell might go after the Stone without him. He was threatening Quirrell to straighten out his loyalties! I think he might suspect that there's someone else in on the scheme, but I don't think he realises quite how close the danger really is."

"That's not good," Ron jumped in immediately, "we need to—"

But she refused to hear it, loudly interrupting, "Hold on, you two!" It wasn't strictly outside the bounds of possibility that Quirrell had allies they knew nothing about—and if she had to hazard a guess which of the Professors might be in league with Dark Wizards, Snape would almost certainly be at the top of her list—but that was no reason to work themselves up into a frenzy. It was bad enough that they were all trying to keep one eye on Quirrell; if Snape got thrown back into suspicion, she had no doubt that her two Gryffindors would be much more likely to do something rash and incredibly dangerous. Their dislike for the Potions Master was fierce, after all; and, while they weren't without their reasons, rushing off to confront the man in question would be the height of stupidity. "You're both forgetting something," she said, hoping to talk some sense into the boys, "it isn't our job to protect the Stone, that's what Dumbledore is for."

Tom's hand slipped easily into her own, startling her briefly as she had not noticed him closing the small distance to her side. "As much as it pains me to agree," he sighed dramatically, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze, "I think that the man who defeated Grindelwald can handle a couple of Dark Wizards."

She didn't feel reassured at all. In fact, it struck her quite suddenly that Grindelwald's defeat was something Tom might not be meant to know of. What if his knowing changed things, rerouted history? Unless… unless the duel had already happened in his time and Tom was simply speaking of contemporary events? Afterall, Grindelwald had fallen to Dumbledore in 1945 and she had estimated that her Slytherin could be attending Hogwarts as late as the 1950's. Not that secrecy ultimately mattered, she realised with a sinking feeling—they'd discussed more modern problems like You-Know-Who at length, so the cat was thoroughly out of the bag. Pressing the issue now was not only impractical, it was outright pointless.

Unaware of the abrupt sidetrack Hermione's thoughts had taken, Harry countered, "Maybe Dumbledore could handle Snape, but no one other than us seems to realise that there's more to Quirrell than meets the eye—and even we don't know who's possessing him."

"That doesn't give us much of an advantage, you know," she replied, quickly shaking off her newfound concerns. "We're still just First Years, and Dumbledore is one of the  _greatest_  wizards of the modern age."

"Yeah," Ron waded into the debate a bit uneasily, "but how hard do you suppose it is to get passed a three-headed dog?" He rubbed the back of his neck, ear flushing darkly at the incredulous looks he received. His embarrassment, however, did not stop him from pointing out, "It's not like Dumbledore tucked the Stone into his desk drawer; he's not there to guard it all the time. He might not even know it's in danger until it's already gone!"

She felt her lips turning down into an almost childish moue of frustration. "If he was so worried that even  _Gringotts_ , of all places, wasn't safe enough, then he wouldn't have left the Stone without defenses! There's probably more to it than just Fluffy." But the two Gryffindor boys refused to see the sense in her words and, indeed, seemed to regard them as a confirmation of their own worries.

"Yeah," Harry agreed pointedly, "but how hard do you reckon it is to get passed all those security measures if Dumbledore isn't  _physically_  there to guard the Stone?"

"Quirrell did manage to rob Gringotts, Hermione," Ron added, "that's never been done before.  _Ever_." At her dirty look, he held up his hands and carefully explained, "My brother, Bill, is a Curse Breaker for the bank. He said the sort of magic that this bloke had to use to get in and out unharmed and unseen was in another league; said they'd  _never_  seen  _anything_  like it."

Tom, who'd been eerily silent as he observed their exchange, let out a sigh and grudgingly conceded, "Between a Potions Master, a Dark Arts expert and whatever it is that's possessing him, they probably know loads of enchantments and forbidden magic that would help them sneak by under Dumbledore's nose."

" _Not you, too_ ," Hermione bit out, feeling the slightest bit betrayed that he wasn't taking her side—the fact that Ron and Harry shared her surprise only seemed to add to the insult. She quickly dropped Tom's hand and rounded on the boys, all but shouting, "Look you three, this is  _dangerous_  stuff we're talking about; you're only proving my point! We're barely even through our First Year and so much of what we've been taught is just foundation and theory—these are two or three full grown men who could probably  _kill_  us without even having to so much as  _whisper_  an incantation. We're  _not_  prepared for something like this!"

"Undoubtedly," Tom replied levelly, his fingers slipping back around her own—although it was unclear if he was trying to soothe her or simply prove he was unaffected by her temper—and continued, "but we're stuck in the thick of it anyway, prepared or not. Quirrell wants something from me, and the only way he knows how to get it is through you and, by association, your friends here." He gave her a gentle squeeze, patiently waiting for her to meet his eyes before asking, "So if we're  _already_  under his scrutiny, if we're  _already_  considering him our enemy, then wouldn't it make more sense to understand him and his motivations as much as we can? This is exactly why you went looking up wands, is it not?"

It was, and she hated how thoroughly he'd backed her into a corner with it. Uncomfortably petulant, she refused to reply, but it hardly mattered because he already  _knew_  her answer.

"It's safer to know," Harry asserted, putting an end to the petty silence that had been brewing, "and if  _we_  can put this mystery together then it's a certainty  _they_  could as well."

"So how do you get passed a three-headed dog?" Ron repeated thoughtfully.

"We could ask Hagrid," the shorter boy replied slowly, his tone a bit uncertain. "I mean, he raised the thing after all, so he ought to know."

Whatever mulish silence Hermione had committed herself to broke at that suggestion. If she was to be a part of this nonsense—and there was no question she would be, because the thought of leaving these three boys to their own devices was terrifying—then she was going to be adamant that they not take advantage of one of their own. "He wouldn't willing give up that information to a group of First Years," she murmured, trying to ignore how openly she was appealing to Harry's uncertainty. "You'd have to trick it out of him—and I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't enjoy the idea of treating a friend like Hagrid so poorly. He'd be hurt, and you know it!"

"What's the alternative?" Harry asked darkly, frustration punctuating each word. "We just  _let_  Snape and Quirrell make off with the Stone?"

"Is that a sacrifice you're willing to make?" she countered seriously. "Abuse the feelings of a man who genuinely cares for us, for no reason other than that he is truly kindhearted—deceive and betray his trust for the sake of the greater good?"

Tom, likely not knowing who they were talking about, looked as he always did when he felt she was being needlessly difficult—which was to say, bored silly and slightly irritated. Harry and Ron both had the decency to look a little shamefaced at those words, but that guilt didn't stop the redhead from replying, "I like Hagrid as much as anyone, but think about what's at stake, Hermione. Snape and Quirrell certainly won't be above tricking him! What else can we do?"

"There are lines you can't cross without becoming someone else. This line here is what separates us from them," she asserted with a seriousness beyond her short years. "Besides, I thought you all knew me better than that: when in doubt,  _research_."

* * *

_Hogwarts, 1939_

Tom grit his teeth against the anger and frustration welling up within him, against the overwhelming urge to  _smash_  and  _destroy_ —to unravel something  _so completely_  it may as well have  _never_  existed in the first place—to exert whatever explosive influence he could until he felt himself in control once more. Helplessness bubbled just under his skin, a sickening weakness that he could never seem to fully combat because the unseen forces of the Universe kept stacking unsolvable puzzles at his feet.

The Void, that abyssal realm bereft of Time or Reason, obeyed no laws he could discern. Indeed, the very instant he felt as if he had figured out even the smallest truth of its nature, the hellish place  _changed_  in whichever manner he was most unable to predict. When last he had parted from Hermione, his journey home had been unsettlingly smooth, unexpectedly short, but not so today. Today, it was as if that dimension of Everything and Nothing had forced him to repay his temporary ease with interest—today, it had taken him the far more unpleasant, but infinitely more customary amount of time to bridge the gap between decades and  _he did not understand why!_

Tom's breathing caught, his jaw clenching further as he bitterly acknowledged that this was not the only area of his life which had become unexpectedly aloof. Hermione had all but  _cringed_  at his presence this afternoon, and though she had appeared to temper and subdue her initial response the shock of it still left an acrid, rotting taste in his mouth. That familiar distance was stretching between them once more, a fissure which could mean only one thing: she was keeping secrets from him again. Slipping away from him like water, dripping through his fingers piece by piece because he could not contain her unless she wished it—the real question was  _why_  she did not wish it. Why would she not confide in him? What had happened, what had she discovered that shook her so greatly she could scarcely even stand to look at him? She had tolerated his touch, and yet still there had been an almost tangible wall between them, something greater and even more terrible than the half century that routinely separated their lives.

She was mad if she thought she could get away with it, whatever  _it_  was; he had conceded that he had to share her with her family, had grudgingly endured her  _other_  friends, and could do nothing about the academic demands on her time, but he  _would not_  tolerate Hermione herself throwing further unnecessary obstacles between them. It was unacceptable; if she put herself in danger again, if she faced the unknown  _without_  him—his thoughts stuttered and broke off at the very idea.

She seemed so small to him sometimes, fragile almost, and without the necessary ruthlessness to face the world head on. Appearances were deceiving though, for he knew there were hidden strengths to her—her sharp intellect, her explosive temper, and her delightfully reactive magic, just to name a few—but he couldn't shake the feeling that she was  _better, safer_  with him at her side. Why deny him that role? Time and again, they had proven that they worked more effectively together than they did apart, their unique perspectives combining in complementary ways that allowed them to achieve greater success than they might have faced on their own. Why deny herself that opportunity? Why…  _why turn away her oldest friend?_

He could not abide it, could not allow that insufferable distance to spread and fester between them like necrotic poison! He had to… had to find  _some_  way of—!

With a startled blink, Tom's more logical side finally caught up to his racing thoughts, appalled and intrigued with the idea that had been blooming in his mind. It was certainly not the first time he had wished to steal away with the girl, and he sincerely doubted it would be the last, either. The fact remained, however, that he did not have the means to do so and, even if he could, it was unlikely to solve his current problem. Swallowing down his anger—forcing that formidable rage to quiet itself—he tried to review Hermione's behaviour in the same way he might assess any of his Housemates.

She'd been wary, sweet brown eyes darting to and fro, appearing strangely shifty for her. As suspicious as that was on its own, he could not ignore her posture: awkward and hunched, her arms drawn tight as if she were trying to fold in upon herself, the wild curls of her hair providing a curtain for her to hide behind. Her body language had suggested she'd been less frightened and more… embarrassed. But what did Hermione have to be embarrassed about in Tom's company? There was no denying that she'd been unhappy with Potter's recountings—perhaps she'd felt foolish for dragging Tom into it. But why flinch away from him then?

It suddenly struck him that he'd seen this behaviour from her before. Shaken, unsure, and curled in on herself as if leery of Tom's reaction—she was being bullied again, he was sure of it! True to her stubborn nature, she felt it was not his place to intercede on her behalf, and no matter how greatly he despised that attitude he knew he could not offer his protection in this matter until she asked for it. Well, he amended, that wasn't entirely true; he was teaching her Defense, after all, and that was a sort of protection, was it not? He couldn't stand between Hermione and her problems—she would not allow it—but he could make damn sure she knew how to protect herself. He would simply have to find a few creative hexes to share while they were studying and think of a particularly underwhelming way to phrase their usage that would not strike her as violent. Was it possible to  _trick_  someone into defending themselves? Though his four Gryffindor charges had made excellent progress within the bluestone walls of Slytherin's Classroom—learning several weeks' worth of material in a single visit—it was clear to Tom that he would have to impress upon them how integral Defense was, even in their everyday lives. Perhaps in a group setting, surrounded by boys who would no doubt share Tom's opinion, Hermione would finally start to see the sense in his argument.

With that matter as settled as it could be, Tom looked around the empty classroom he had arrived in and allowed his thoughts to drift as his more calm and rational side reasserted itself. Inevitably, reminiscing about his clandestine tutoring session only reminded him of the curious little rumour Weasley and Longbottom had let slip: in addition to his lost classroom, Salazar Slytherin may have had a Chamber of Secrets. And Tom, covetous at the best of times, was eager to learn more about it—this, at least, was a mystery well within reach. His first impulse was to go to the Seneschal, but despite how generous she often was with him, decoding Slytherin's parseltongue writings would take time he current did not have to spare. He wanted information  _now_ , which left him thinking of one student only: Andrus Lestrange. The older boy had long since proven himself more than helpful when it came to gossip and rumour.

Finding Andrus was hardly difficult—the Second Year was perched in his customary seat by the Common Room's eerily submerged windows. Regrettably, he was also surrounded by his equally customary mob of extended family. The Rosiers and Carrows had attempted to close ranks around their cousin after hearing some of the more exotic rumours that had begun circulating about Tom, and they looked positively thunderous at his approach.

"Sod off, Riddle!" one of the more surly ones—a Third Year Rosier, if he wasn't mistaken—bit out as soon as he was within earshot.

But Tom refused to be deterred; their aggressive posturing only ensured his disfavour later down the road, so there was little point in being particularly upset right now. "A word, Andrus?" he asked, making a great show of ignoring the other Purebloods gathered 'round.

Lestrange gave him a long look, as if trying to divine Tom's purpose by sight alone. In this, at least, Tom was just as talented as even the loftiest lordling inside Slytherin; his expression was bland, mildly disinterested, it gave nothing away and offered Andrus—or, more precisely, his cousins—no useful clues. Though he had greater reason to distrust Tom than anybody else, this newest leap of faith did not seem to bother the Second Year. True to his foppish nature, however, he let out an exaggerated sigh as he packed his schoolbag and rose lazily to his feet.

Lestrange's brutish cousin did not appreciate their playful indifference, anymore than he appreciated that his noble-born cousin was obeying the whims of a bloodless orphan. He clapped a heavy hand over one of Andrus's shoulders and, flushing an ugly red, growled, "Ignore him."

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Andrus soothed, trying to shrug off Rosier's hold.

But Rosier had fisted his hand into the material of Lestrange's robe, forcing the younger boy still. "You're  _legitimising_  him, you know," he all but bellowed, emboldened by the distant, hissing agreement of the Carrows. "The more time you spend with that little Mudblood, the more acceptable he becomes to the rest of the House!"

Which, in the long term, was precisely Andrus's goal; the sooner Tom had some tangible clout around Slytherin, the sooner Lestrange could begin reaping the benefits of having aligned himself with the unknown boy. His allegiance was still a precarious thing, but for now at least he seemed more than willing to eschew his cousins for the opportunity to stand beside the Heir of Slytherin. He maneuvered free of his cousin's grasp, murmuring, "Peace, Seserin."

The soft tone only appeared to enrage Rosier further. "What's he got on you?"

Tom watched Lestrange carefully, curious what the other boy would say. Andrus could not cavalierly hint that the orphan was his bastard half-brother—not to his closest cousins who  _knew_  better—and it was unlikely that he would invoke Dumbledore's name when he'd been so upset by the comparison in the first place. Neatly backed into a corner, the young noble tread as close to the truth as he dared. "It's not like that. Riddle's," he paused and sighed, obviously struggling to find the right words, "look, he might not be a Lestrange but he's someone, I'll tell you that."

Rosier did not look the least bit convinced, and sneered, "Trash you picked up in a city gutter? I've never known you to be altruistic enough for charity cases—you're above them,  _the heir to the Lestrange family_ , and this doesn't reflect well upon you. If you throw the family into disgrace, you could stand to lose your inheritance."

"Andrus," Tom murmured, threading his voice with a hint of impatience. In truth, he quite enjoyed watching this odd byplay—so different from Alphard and Eunice's blatant adoration, and yet still filled with that easy sense of fellowship family members all seemed to share—but his blood was positively  _burning_  to learn more about the Chamber, and Seserin Rosier was only wasting time.

Lestrange frowned at the gentle urging, and snapped, "You could jump in at anytime, Riddle!"

He understood the Second Year's frustration; short of telling the truth, there were no lies pretty enough to sway the more ardent blood purists. In fact, a part of Tom was a little sadistically pleased that he was no longer the only one to feel the full weight of that burden. When else would a perfect little Pureblood like Lestrange ever experience that sort of discrimination, even if only secondhand? Perhaps a small taste of strife would encourage him to stop  _dithering_.

Andrus had spoken to Tom during a time when the rest of Slytherin would hardly even acknowledge his presence, and for that Tom held a certain… not fondness, per se, but trust in the other boy. That said, it had not escaped his notice that Andrus had a worrying tendency to place himself off in the wings—unseen and out of the fray, acting only as an advisor instead of getting his hands dirty. While having Lestrange's insight into the wizarding world was invaluable, his lack of true action made it feel as if he wasn't choosing a side; Tom suspected that the older boy was keeping his options open, so that if it ever became necessary he could simply laugh the orphan off as a silly mistake. Under different circumstances, Tom might have admired that wary caution, but here and now it simply felt like a slight against him. To that end, he was only too happy to stir up conflict between these cousins, add a little pressure for Andrus to disengage himself from the families that so despised "Mudblood" Riddle.

Tom allowed his lips to curl into a hard smile that he knew warped the otherwise benign features of his face. "Yes, I suppose I could," he replied thoughtfully, but left the matter there. Wishing to further drive home the point that he wasn't about to bail the older boy out, he raised a haughty brow and asked, "Are you coming or not?"

Lestrange's lips thinned in displeasure, but he turned away from his cousins, quietly throwing over his shoulder, "I'm sorry, Seserin. One day you'll understand," before crossing to the younger boy's side.

The Common Room was bustling with activity, but the pair managed to find a secluded corner to converse in, well away from angry relations and eavesdroppers. Eyes surreptitiously observed the pair—curious onlookers, irritated family members, and suspicious classmates all watching in without wanting to appear too keen—but no one approached them. As ever, the uncertainty of Tom's blood status kept the majority of the House at bay.  _If only they knew!_  How many would bitterly regret their standoffishness once it became known that little orphan Riddle was Heir to their precious Founder? How many who spit and sneered at him today would later bow their heads in subservience?

Once he was absolutely certain they would not be overheard, Andrus tsked disapprovingly and observed, "You're in a mood today."

Tom allowed his fantasies to slip away, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes at the other boy's accusation—Lestrange would no doubt resent it if he explained that he'd wanted to watch the older boy make a choice, declare his loyalty in some small way. However, as much fun as it was to see the noble scion struggle between personal ambition and familial expectation, he ultimately could not afford to alienate the Second Year. Even planted firmly in neutral territory, Andrus was a useful font of information. Letting that particular grudge go for now, he softly replied, "You failed to tell me about the Chamber of Secrets."

"Didn't see the point," Andrus laughed, his tense mood quickly evaporating, "it's just a legend. Generations of students have come and gone without a single hint of truth to it." At the orphan's dark and unimpressed gaze, he held up his hands, shrugging, "Look, other Heirs of Slytherin  _must_  have passed through these halls, Riddle, but the Chamber has  _never_  been opened."

"As far as anyone knows, you mean," Tom countered. "It wouldn't exactly be a secret if they announced it to the whole school, now would it?"

For a brief second it appeared as if Lestrange considered the idea, but plainly could not come to terms with it. "People have searched, but in all these years it still hasn't been found." He shook his head and grimaced, though it was unclear if he simply disliked the topic or if he was uncomfortable trying to disabuse the First Year of this infamous fantasy. "As far as anyone can tell, it never even existed in the first place."

But Tom wasn't the sort to give up on his desires so readily; the idea of the Chamber felt  _right_. If he was to share anything in common with his ancestor—serpentine communication aside—then why not an acquisitive love of secrets? Besides, Hogwarts was massive, parts of it clearly long since forgotten; creating a secret chamber and keeping it hidden for over a thousand years was well within the realm of possibility. "Spin me a tale then, Andrus," he encouraged silkily. "How does the legend go?"

Lestrange was wary of that tone of voice—and rightly so, since it had often preceded a nasty trick on the younger boy's part. Tense once more, he stiffly replied, "The four Founders were some of the greatest witches and wizards to ever live, and they wanted to impart their wisdom and experience upon the rest of us, which is why they opened Hogwarts. They were all fast friends and very close, but they each held uniquely different qualities and ideals in high regard. This not only led to the creation of the Sorting Ceremony and the four separate Houses—it birthed a deep and insurmountable rift between Slytherin and the others."

Andrus wet his lips nervously, but seemed to relax by inches as he recounted such ancient history. Voice low, he continued in a hushed tone, "Slytherin wasn't so much of a Blood Purist as some people like to claim, but he did feel that Hogwarts should only be open to students from magical families; it was less about the purity of the bloodline and more about keeping the wizarding world safe from muggles." An unnecessary task, certainly. What did the wizarding world have to fear from non-magicals? "Maybe he grew resentful over the years and became more of an extremist, who knows? Either way, between that and his persistent desire to include some of the Dark Arts into the curriculum, Slytherin soon found himself with a distinct lack of allies."

Lestrange took in a breath, drawing closer before he continued, "The legend goes that, in his isolation and anger, he began collecting materials—books and artefacts, mostly—to store within a hidden chamber where he intended to teach select students what he felt they truly ought to know. He was supposedly forced from the school before he ever got the opportunity."

Salazar Slytherin had always been something of an abstract concept in Tom's mind: a blood relation that had lived so long ago his deeds had passed into the realm of myth and legend. It was hard to picture Slytherin as a real person, to find some similarity between himself and this grand ancestor he still knew precious little about. In that spirit, he couldn't help but admire these newfound parallels: the instinctive urge to acquire hidden knowledge, to jealously guard his secrets where none may find them, and the bone-deep desire to tutor the select few who were worthy of it. Perhaps he had  _far more_  in common with his ancestor than a simple ease with snakes.

It took effort to set the thought aside, to recall that Weasley had spoken of a  _creature_. "And the monster?" he finally asked after a quiet moment.

"Who knows?" Andrus shrugged. "It could have been a pet or something he discovered on his travels. Some of his more ardent detractors insisted it had the power to purge Hogwarts of anyone Slytherin would have disapproved of—maybe by then he was filled with so much hate that he really  _did_  raise a monster." Softer, the boy added, "He left Hogwarts a very  _changed_  man."

Tom had seen the same story play out a thousand times in London: a bright, hopeful young thing would come to the city, filled to the brim with energy and ideas, only to swiftly find themselves pressed up against the immovable wall of reality. The failure of those youthful whimsies could twist a person up, thread a steely cord of bitterness around their souls, until there was practically no resemblance between who they'd  _once_  been and what they had  _become_. He'd seen innovators transformed into charlatans, moneylenders falling amongst paupers, and fresh-faced young women warped into shrill harridans. It was unthinkable that Salazar Slytherin had succumb to the same ordinary fate—hopeful dreams and ambitions crushed by the very friends who had once sworn to help him achieve them—and yet it was hardly surprising that the steady fallout had forged him into a different man.

It was just unfortunate that the legacy his House chose to bear had been born of his defeat, that they were now overflowing with a purist ideology he had only turned to in the depths of his despair. How different might Hogwarts be today had those early students chosen to honour their Founder's true philosophy, if they had sharpened their cunning and ambition in place of spouting hateful nonsense? Tom was wary of concepts like fate and destiny—being a time-traveler left him uncomfortably aware of his actions, and jittery at the prospect that his choices were never truly his own because they had been preordained in some way—but perhaps he had a duty here, as Slytherin's Heir, to straighten out the mess festering inside their House. Maybe that was the true explanation behind his unfavourable upbringing; he was a Half-Blooded orphan so as to have a unique, outsider's perspective, to be without the decadent trappings of aristocracy that might have otherwise clouded his vision and prevented him from doing what clearly  _needed_  to be done.

Or maybe the Universe was pure chaos and he was attempting to find meaning in a long series of unrelated coincidences.

Tom pushed those thoughts away, silently chuckling at the fanciful turn he'd taken. "I don't suppose you have any idea where the Chamber might be?" he asked, refocusing on his companion.

Andrus, however, was lost for words, his otherwise boundless well of knowledge failing him. "All the legend says is that only Slytherin's true Heir will have the power to open it, but it's location is anyone's guess," the Second Year replied, shrugging helplessly. "He favored the dungeons, of course, but considering his trickster nature, I doubt he would have dared to place it so obviously close to his House or classroom. Satisfied?"

At that petulant question Tom allowed himself a true laugh, the high and wild sound unsettling Lestrange almost as much as his intense assertion of, " _Never_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Good news, everyone! I'm not dead! To make a long story incredibly short, the Ergott family ended up moving several hundred miles away from where we were previously living. We've moved a lot over the years (in fact, we only lived about 2-3 years in the town we most recently left), so we're pretty experienced at this, but the process takes time and my writing suffered for it. The dust is finally starting to clear as we're settling into our new home, so hopefully that means more time to focus on Addendum. I can't express my apologies enough—I certainly didn't want to break away from the story for so long that people started to think it was abandoned! I also would like to apologize to anyone who was corresponding with me, be through email, PM, or the comments that have not or stopped responding to; things started piling up pretty badly, and I just wanted to get this chapter out finally! I'm not ignoring anyone, I'm just a little overwhelmed.
> 
> As always, my deepest and most heartfelt gratitude goes out to everyone who has bookmarked or left kudos, especially to laenamorada, earedien, Sanguinary_Tide, elsryn, Emilybmaz, CinnaAtHeart, saintofbeasts, AmberJae, Angrypixels, cutestpixieyoueversaw, FreyaFallen, differentcrusadeexpert, OphyBoing, Nispedana, krimsky, Faramile, Darkcirclesqueen, Alizay, Amelinda (welcome back!), and Anony for all taking the time to comment!
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> Story Cross-Posted at Fanfiction.net. (Summary also updated, yay!)

**Author's Note:**

> I've uh... started a new story for a ship I've really only recently embraced. I really love time-travel stories but most of the ones I've read have Hermione going back into the past, so I thought I'd write one where Tom goes to the future. Let me know what you all think!
> 
> Please comment or leave kudos!
> 
> Cross-posted at Fanfiction.net.


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